


A Demon Named John

by pissedoffeskimo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Manipulation, Physical Abuse, Possessed John, Pre-Series, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Slow Build, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 81,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2749499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedoffeskimo/pseuds/pissedoffeskimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Azazel knows that Sammy’s his boy, he’s never been more sure of anything.  So when John starts hunting, he decides to take matters into his own hands and sends someone to watch the boys.  Make sure they grow up the way he wants them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I would start posting this on December 10 if I had enough written, and while I could argue that considering how long this is shaping up to be 90 plus pages isn't enough, my significant other assures me that I'm just making excuses. So, fine then, no more excuses. Besides, I think I need feedback for fuel, which means that comments and kudos are appreciated. Deeply, deeply appreciated.
> 
> Tags/Warnings and rating will more than likely be updated as it goes along.

Dean was four when his mom died and a year later, he’s losing his dad. His dad hasn’t died, or at least Dean doesn’t think he has, but what walks in the door that night isn’t his father and it doesn’t take him more then a few seconds to figure that out. He doesn’t need the pitch black eyes. It’s in the smile. It’s the way the thing leans in the doorway of the apartment, not for support from one too many beers, but because it’s watching him where he’s laying on the floor where Sammy and he had fallen asleep earlier, waiting for Dad to come back.

It watches them for minutes, just standing in the open doorway and then it smiles, wide and lazy. When it walks, it saunters. Dean’s only five and he doesn’t know a lot, but he knows more than most five year olds. He knows his mother burned, pinned over his brother’s crib. His Dad doesn’t hold any punches with the truth. Sometimes, Dean wishes he would, but mostly, he’s glad he doesn’t. Especially now, because when the thing crouches in front of him and it’s eyes go from brown to beetle black, maybe Dean’s chest seizes up in panic and he wants to scream, but he doesn’t, because he remembers what these things can do and he doesn’t want to end up like his mom. He doesn’t want to leave Sammy alone.

They stare at each other for what feels like hours, but it’s probably only minutes. Then the black bleeds away and the brown of his Dad’s eyes are back. It puts one callused finger up to its own mouth and glances at Sammy, asleep and covered in a thin blanket. Dean nods, because he doesn’t know what else to do. It reaches out, ruffling his hair.

Dean does flinch away, but it doesn’t look upset or angry. It looks amused as it gets up and walks past him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind it. The idea of running out the front door almost makes him wake up Sammy, but… but he’s five and Sammy’s barely a year old. He doesn’t know how far they’d get on their own – not far – or, if they go for help, what the thing will do to whoever helps them.

His dad says demons have black eyes. If it’s a demon then it’s possessing him and possession means his Dad’s still in there somewhere. Probably. That’s Dad’s theory, anyway and he can’t leave Dad to that, so he presses his back to the sofa and tries to remember everything Dad told him about demons in the last year.

 

*****

 

“Christo!”

Dean stays up all night. He sits next to Sammy and watches the door where the thing possessing his father is… okay, well, he isn’t sure what it's doing, but it hasn’t come out all night.

Somewhere between four and five, he manages to convince himself that it might not be a demon. Dad always says there are other things out there, lots of them, and while he hasn’t mentioned anything else that had black eyes like that, he’d readily admitted he didn’t know even half the things that were out there, so maybe it isn’t Dad at all, maybe it’s just something that looks like him. Or maybe it’s worse. Maybe something has done something to him and his dad isn’t human anymore. Either way, he has to be sure. Dad says demons can be forced to reveal themselves under certain circumstances – salt, holy, water, Christo. Dean can’t reach the salt without climbing the counters and that would be too obvious. The holy water is in the room the maybe-demon’s been occupying all night, but he still has his voice.

He can’t do it right away, though. At breakfast, Sammy’s right there and if it is a demon, it might get pissed enough to hurt them. So, he waits until Sammy goes down for his nap in their bedroom and the demon is standing in the kitchen, watching Dean pour himself a glass of water. He waits until it has its head tilted back, one hand on the bottle, the other resting against the counter top and he says it. No point in being subtle, so he’s loud and it’s just one word, but as soon as it’s out, he regrets it, because it chokes on the beer and twitches it’s head down at him, eyes stuttering to black as it shakes off the affects of whatever the word does to it.

Dean backs up a few steps before his back hits the table, but it isn’t moving for him, in fact, once the twitching stops, it smiles. “Aren’t you just a clever little boy. Daddy taught you well.”

He glares at the mention of his dad, trapped behind black and the faint smell of sulfur, but there. Has to be there somewhere. The thing twitches, its face warping subtly into something pained and desperate for a moment before settling back into an angry sneer.

It chugs the last of the beer and says nothing as it storms into Dad’s bedroom, slams the door hard enough that seconds later Sammy starts crying. Dean isn’t sure what just happened, but he thinks maybe it was Dad, just for a second, so he can’t give up. If Dad can fight, he can stay.

 

*****

 

Sometimes he’s sees Dad. Not for very long, just seconds at a time and if he says anything, it’s usually just Dean’s or Sammy’s name, broken and choked up, and then he’s gone. Dean tries Christo one more time. He’s desperate for his dad, desperate for someone to tell him what to do. This thing doesn’t hurt them, it feeds them, it watches Dean, and it doesn’t seem to care about Sammy as long as Dean keeps him out from under its feet, but it looks like his dad. His dad is in there somewhere and he thinks there has to be a way to help. There has to be someone he can call. He remembers names Dad said a few times, an old army buddy of his, a pastor, and a guy named Bobby that Dean met once, and a psychic back in Lawrence.   He doesn’t know anymore than that, though. He doesn’t have numbers, or addresses. What he does have is Sammy and something that looks like his father, but isn’t.

So, when it’s been a week since his father has managed to push through and Dean is desperate enough to not care if it hurts him, he says it. Sammy is asleep and he’s looking at the empty plates at the table while the thing drinks beer and watches him, like it’s been doing for a month now. Dean looks at it and says, “Christo,” soft and as defiantly as he can manage with only five years and a world of fear behind it.

It twitches at him, eyes going black and lips curling into a snarl for just a second before it rights itself. Dean waits and he hopes. But it only crouches down in front of him. There’s nothing of his father in those black eyes and they aren’t wavering. They stare at him and he ticks off the seconds in his head until it reaches out and ruffles his hair, still smiling before going to the couch and kicking its feet up onto the coffee table to watch television.

 

*****

 

If his father’s still in there – and Dean has to believe he is, he has to or he’ll start crying and he doesn’t think he can stop and Sammy will ask why and Dean doesn’t know how to answer that – he can’t get through. Dean knows his dad well enough to know he’s still fighting, but he must have already lost or is losing whatever war is going on in there, because it’s been months. He thinks about running all the time. He thinks about how bad an idea that is, but he thinks maybe if he waits a few years, maybe when Sammy’s a little older.

He does the math and makes plans that he isn’t even sure he’ll be able to follow through with, but it’s better then doing nothing.

 

*****

 

The first day of school, Dean doesn’t talk to anyone, mostly because he doesn’t have anything to say, but also because he isn’t sure what he’s allowed to say. He’d been terrified when they were enrolling him that the demon intended to watch Sammy. He can’t imagine leaving his not even two year old brother alone with it for hours. He doesn’t understand why he’s being forced to go, because the one forcing him is a demon. What does it care if he has an education? Why can’t he just stay home and take care of Sammy like he’s been doing?

Except every time he tried to ask, it said, “You’re going,” and walked away, like that’s the end of it and Dean realized it was. He couldn’t say no, because he’s six and John isn’t his father, except that he is and no one is going to look twice, even if John drags Dean kicking and screaming into that elementary school.

It watches him closely for the last few days preceding the start of school. It watches him watching it, alternating between glaring and shaking in something that borders fear and defiance while he hugs Sammy a little closer. It doesn’t even look at Sammy most days. Will it bother feeding him? Will it notice if he gets into something he isn’t supposed to? If Sammy throws a temper tantrum… what if it gets so annoyed it hurts him or worse and Dean isn’t there?

By the time the first day of school rolls around Dean is so stressed that he almost hugs the demon as he’s so stupidly grateful when it walks them down to the other end of the small complex of apartments they live in and Dean meets Ms. Alverez, the retired widow that takes care of her grandkids after school and is absolutely delighted to watch Sammy during the day. Instead, he hugs Sammy and after the door closes and they’re in the safety of the car, Dean chokes out, “Thank you,” and hates himself for it at the same time, but if it keeps Sammy safe, he can say thank you and he can mean it. He already does.

 

******

 

There’s John and there’s Dad. Dean has to make that distinction, it’s easier to separate the two if he has a name for it but he can’t give it a different name because it would be too confusing. It introduces itself as John, everyone calls it John or sometimes Mr. Winchester, but whether because it doesn’t like it or because it notices that Dean flinches when they do, it always corrects them, “Just John,” and Dean figures it could be worse.

He doesn’t know what it wants, but it isn’t hurting them, not in any physical way. Sammy’s about to turn two and doesn’t pay any attention to John anymore. He goes immediately to Dean for everything and sometimes when he looks at John, it’s like he isn’t sure why he’s there. They’ve moved a few times already – new schools for Dean, new sitters for Sammy. Dean hasn’t been anywhere long enough to make real friends, but then he doesn’t really want to.

Sammy is a toddler and he doesn’t remember being a toddler, but he sees other toddlers and they usually smile at each other, wave at each other. Sammy doesn’t do any of that. His eyes are always firmly on Dean, like Dean is the only thing that matters and if Dean points to other kids, Sammy shakes his head and says, “No!” before laughing, like it’s the best joke ever, like it’s a game.

Dean might only be six, but he knows that isn’t normal, but then he can’t really hope for normal, not yet. He can hope for maybe safe and unhurt and not hungry and a lot of things, but normal is another galaxy away. Normal is a place where he’s got his brother away from this thing, or maybe he’s found a way to get it out of his father, or his father manages to kick it out all on his own, but it isn’t here and it isn’t now.

“Dean!” Dean smiles at Sammy and reaches up, pulling the hood down over his brother’s face. Sammy squeals hysterically pulling it back with a loud, “Dean!” that gets them smiles from other people in the store.

John frowns, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t like attention drawn to them, but he seems to have given into the idea that there are different kinds of attention and laughing happy Sammy gets them a better kind then crying fussing Sammy. Dean pushes his luck and does it again and Sam falls forward over the bar of shopping cart, laughing, then bites the rail, looking at Dean through a thick fringe of tousled brown hair and it’s Dean’s turn to laugh.

Two more years.

 

*****

 

Two years ago, eight had seemed impossibly old. Dean had thought he’d have it figured out by then, but he doesn’t. Not even a little. He knows that as young as they are right now, he has to have somewhere to run to. If he doesn’t, they’ll get dragged right back. So, he listens when they’re out, because he remembers Dad saying something about Hunters, people who kill monsters, and he thinks maybe if he could find one, he’d have somewhere to run to.

Sometimes, he thinks John knows what he’s doing, because he doesn’t take them out often. Most of the year, he locks them in and does the shopping on his own, but around the holidays, people get nosier than usual and John’s keyed into that enough that he takes them shopping with him for those two months out of the year.

The hardest part, he thinks, is that he still doesn’t know what it wants. It clearly hates sitting around playing homemaker with them. It drinks all the time, mumbles to itself, spends hours out on the town. Sometimes it brings back a random drunk woman in that time between late night and early morning and Dean covers his head with a pillow so he doesn’t have to listen.

It still hasn’t raised a hand to them. It hasn’t even raised its voice. Dean’s used Christo four more times, just to remind himself that John isn’t his father, because sometimes… sometimes it feels like there aren’t a lot of differences. Like it could be his father sitting at the table with him.

He’s used salt once, too, across the front door and the window sills when John went out one night and sat on the sofa, waiting to see what would happen. It didn’t say anything, didn’t make threats or promises, didn’t go to get reinforcements and eventually, Dean got up and obscured the line on his own, because he wasn’t sure what he’d intended to accomplish with that anyway. Even if he could keep it out, that didn’t help anything - it locked them in as much as it locked the demon out. The only repercussion he’s faced is now John doesn’t buy salt and he makes sure none of the previous tenants have left any in the cupboards when they move in. Dean can always steal salt shakers from the diners they visit between towns, but he figures he’ll save that trick for later, when he knows what to do with it.

It’s confusing and complicated and Dean wishes he was older then eight, so maybe he’d understand what and why and how and when they’ll be able to get away, but for now, he can’t do anything more then wait and worry about Sammy.

He’s being watched by a Ms. Carter across the street from their apartment. She has a small daycare, ten children maximum and she’s nice enough. Dean likes her because with ten kids, Sammy can make friends. Except that Sammy doesn’t want to. Ms. Carter says Sammy’s quiet, well behaved, he has good table manners for someone his age, but he doesn’t really socialize with the other kids there.   He’s not mean, or anything. In fact, if they talk to him, he talks back and he’s polite and nice enough, he just isn’t interested. According to Ms. Carter, he isn’t interested in anything until Dean gets there in the afternoon.

John plays the sympathy card when she approaches him about it – their mother died four years ago and his job moves them around a lot, he’s so grateful for everything she does with Sammy, it means a lot to him – with a smile that makes her cheeks and neck pink and makes Dean feel uncomfortable.

Dean waits till they’re alone later that night to talk to Sammy. He asks if Sammy has friends and Sammy says, “No.” like it doesn’t mean anything.

“They’re nice to you, right? They don’t make fun of you or anything?” Because he’s well aware that kids can be mean and they walk around in second hand clothes that don’t fit right.

“No, they’re nice.”

“Then… Sammy, do you want to be friends with them?”

“No.” He’s still paying more attention on the coloring book than Dean, because Sammy doesn’t see this as a serious conversation and Dean isn’t sure what that means, but he’s heard the concern, not just in Ms. Carter’s voice, but in their other babysitters as well. Sammy not making friends is something to be concerned about, it’s something serious.

“Why not?”

Sammy shrugs and his lips quirk and he stops coloring for just a second, a small hesitation like he’s thinking about it and then he says, “You don’t.”

“I don’t what?”

“Have friends.”

And of course he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t have time for friends and even if he did, it’s not like he can go over to their house to play – leave Sammy alone with John or just alone if John decides to go out. Kids his age don’t understand him. Dean’s responsible for his brother, in more ways then he can count and he has a literal demon breathing down his neck every day and he lives in a constant state of flux where he doesn’t know when they’ll move again or when John will get tired of having them around and what that’s going to mean and if he can get Sammy out before that happens. He’s afraid and confused and worried and overwhelmed nearly all the time and he doesn’t feel like adding to that by pretending to play games like the other kids, which means that, no, he doesn’t have friends.

But Sammy… Sammy should have friends. Dean takes the brunt of this alone because he doesn’t want Sammy scared – he wants his brother happy and part of that is having friends. If it’s for Sammy, Dean figures, he can do anything, even make friends. Or, well, pretend to.

 

*****

 

Tommy is the only other kid Dean’s age that goes to Ms. Carter’s. He’s quiet and he likes books, superheroes, and Pac-man. Dean isn’t sure about books, he doesn’t like superheroes because they’re lies, but he can get behind Pac-man. Ms. Carter has an Atari set up to a small television in one of the back bedrooms and Tommy doesn’t seem to mind Dean joining him.

Dean has no intention of excluding Sammy from anything. He makes more then enough room for Sammy to join them and even gives him the controller a few times. This isn’t about pushing Sammy away; it’s about showing him that they can make friends, that it’s okay to play with other friends outside of Dean.

Even if it’s what he wants, when Dean looks back one afternoon and sees Sammy isn’t on the bed with them anymore, his chest seizes up. He excuses himself and finds Sammy in the living room playing blocks with one of the other kids – a little girl with curly pigtails and a pink and brown dress – and it shouldn’t make him upset. This is what he’s been trying to get at. Sammy should play with other kids. The way Ms. Carter is beaming down at the two of them, asking what their building, says this is what she wanted. This is good, so why does it hurt? And why, when they move a week later, does he feel so relieved that Sam doesn’t care about leaving Bridgette behind?

 

*****

 

“I’ve got a job. You’re coming with me.”

Dean isn’t sure what that means, but he knows it isn’t good, because John is staring at him like he expects Dean to argue, which means he should. It’s the first time John’s ever mentioned a job or work of any kind. Dean’s considered asking what he does for money, because he keeps them in food and hand-me-down clothes. Sometimes they sleep in the car between cities, but not always, so he has to get cash from somewhere. In the long run, though, Dean isn’t sure he wants to know.

“You hear me?”

He looks up from the table where he’s doing a word search and stares back, thinking about what it means that John wants him there. The only thing his mind runs up against is Sammy, asleep in one of the beds behind a decorative barrier. The television is on and Tom and Jerry are chasing each other in the background. Dean casts a glance back to make sure they aren’t bothering Sammy, but he’s still sound asleep, curled up under the scratchy comforter. “What about Sammy?”

“He can stay here.”

Sammy’s barely five. School let out a week ago and as Dean expected, John immediately packed them into the car and started the summer road trip. They won’t settle anywhere for more then a few weeks over the next three months and Dean usually hates it, but this time around, it means he gets Sammy all to himself. He likes that his brother makes friends so easily and that little kids are so naturally trusting of each other, but he can’t help feeling a little lost when it feels like Sammy needs him just a little bit less.

This new town is just large enough to have a wrong side of the tracks and that’s where they’ve settled. The rest of the motel John’s got them in is full of drug addicts, transients, and prostitutes turning a quick buck. In fact, it’s bad enough that just this last week, Dean found out what a prostitute is.

The point is, they can’t leave Sammy alone here. He’s five living in a motel room surrounded on both sides by what Dean is pretty sure are crack addicts that would slit their own mother’s throat for their next fix, let alone some scrawny five year old they don’t know.

John’s still watching him, waiting for a response and Dean manages to choke out, “You can’t… he’s only five. He can’t stay alone.”

“You stayed alone.”

For a full two seconds, Dean can’t draw breath, but it feels longer. He’s forgotten he was five when Dad left to go talk to someone about information on the thing that killed Dean’s mom and came back possessed by a demon. He can’t remember what it was like being that young, because he isn’t sure he ever was. Maybe before his mom died, but seeing her pinned to the ceiling, her stomach bleeding out, knowing what’s out there and what it wants to do to them, what it already has done…

“No. I’m not leaving Sammy.” He gets out of his chair and tries to make himself bigger then he actually is, knows he’s failing, but doesn’t care. He’s not leaving Sammy.

John’s shoulders stiffen, his eyes narrow, and Dean knows saying no to this thing isn’t a good idea. It’s why he hasn’t done it before. He’s begged and pleaded and reasoned, but he’s never outright said no. This, though? This is too important to bargain for. He has to draw a line. He has to…

It doesn’t move to touch him. He barely has time to see its eyes flash black for a second before Dean finds himself shoved back with what feels like the force of a small car crashing into his chest. His side cracks against the table, which collapses under him. A moment later something collides with the side of his face. He blinks several times but all he can see is faded blacks and greys and he can’t seem to move his suddenly very heavy arms and legs.

Somewhere behind a roar in his head, he can hear Sammy yelling, asking what’s going on and calling for Dean. Dean finally manages to force his arms to move, to push him up. He slips down onto the floor again, but the second attempt is more successful. He manages to get a grip on a chair and pull himself up only to see what he can barely make out as the open door. His mind registers this as something very bad about the same time his ears fill with the roar of a car engine that can only be his dad’s car.

He stumbles a few steps, gets hold of the wall and the door frame. Everything is spinning and he can’t think, because the car is already driving off. He can’t see Sammy, but he knows he’s in there. If he could run fast enough, he’d chase them down, but he can barely stand. He stays in the open doorway for a while; long enough for one of the crack whores to shake her head at him like he’s something to pity. When he finally manages to move he slams the door, but doesn’t bother to lock it, because he doesn’t know if John is coming back or if Sammy will be with him when he does. Whatever’s out there that might try to get in doesn’t matter.

Dean presses his back to the door and lets the dizziness drive him down. He cradles his throbbing head in his hands and shakes with the urge to cry until he can feel the tears wetting his face and he lets it go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot how completely nerve-racking it is to post something I've not entirely finished writing yet. Swallowing back my anxiety in 5, 4 - oh, comments and kudos always appreciated - 3, 2, and post.

John’s gone for hours. Dean spends most of the time against the door crying until blood vessels have burst in his eye lids and he has a headache from the gut wrenching, sobbed screams he couldn’t hold in. He didn’t cry when his mom died or when the demon took over Dad. He kept moving, because there was Sammy. He had to be strong for Sammy. He had to keep it together for Sammy but if Sammy’s gone… if Sammy’s gone he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, or who he’s being strong for anymore.

When the rumble of the Impala finally drags Dean from thoughts of everything John could do to Sammy while Dean isn’t there, he’s not ready. He’s only moved once to use the bathroom. His legs are unsteady, but he forces himself up and backs away with his fists clenched. Everything in him wants to run at the evil thing the minute it walks in the door, but he’s pretty sure he’ll fall on his face and while it’s a little fuzzy and it happened too fast, he’s also pretty sure that John didn’t use his hands when he threw him into the table earlier.

He stands his ground when the door opens and John doesn’t bother closing it behind him, just looks at Dean like he’s assessing him. Behind him the car is empty, or Sammy’s asleep in the back, but Dean doubts that. He doubts John drove around with Sammy in the back for a few hours to give Dean time to stew.

“Where’s Sammy?”

“Get in the car.”

“Where’s Sammy?!”

John sighs and takes the quick five steps across the living space, hand out to grab Dean’s arm before he can back up more then a few feet.

“You’re smarter than this, Dean.” He is, he knows better then to make a show of open defiance, but this is Sammy, it’s his brother and he can’t think straight without him there. “Get in the car.”

He wrenches his arm away, or John lets him, because the grip he’d had was already leaving bruises on his bicep. For a good second, he considers making his demand again, but it isn’t going to get him anywhere. Maybe he can goad John into smacking him around more and someone will call the police, except its summer and they move a lot and if John keeps to the seedy side of towns and keeps them locked up in the motel room, the odds are no one will see or care.

With a curse word that he’s pretty sure his dad would spank him for if he could, Dean storms out to the car, careful not to brush against John on the way out, ignoring the smirk on the demon’s lips that doesn’t look right in his dad’s face. …except Dean’s starting to forget what his dad looked like when he smiled. Those memories are being overwritten by the demon and it’s not like he has a very clear memory of his mom to begin with. There used to be pictures, but he doesn’t know where those are now. John probably threw them out.

The demon gets in the car and looks at him with a frown, “You’re not gonna cry, are you?”

“Fuck you.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it, but the demon’s frown slips into a familiar amused smile. “That’s my boy.”

Dean turns away and sniffs back his anger, because there isn’t anything else he can do. He isn’t this demon’s anything, but he doesn’t think John’s in the mood to deal with anymore of his defiance.

“We’ll pick Sammy up after we finish the job.” His head snaps around so fast, it hurts his neck, but John isn’t looking at him. The confirmation that Sammy is alive is enough to make him feel choked up with relief. He turns back to the window again, stares at the passing scenery without really seeing any of. All he has to do is get through this and he’ll have Sammy back, whatever _this_ is.

 

 

*****

 

 

It sounds simple, but Dean knows it isn’t. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to figure out how it’s going to end.

They drive down a highway for nearly an hour, pull off onto a farm road and twenty minutes later turn off onto a gravel path tucked behind trees with three mail boxes at the front. Dean doesn’t know where they are, but he’s pretty sure they’re still in Iowa, somewhere in farm country. His instructions are easy enough – follow the road until he gets to the house and say and do whatever he has to in order to get inside. John’ll be watching. He isn’t sure why John needs him for this, but he knows whoever’s in there probably won’t live through whatever he’s planning, so he tries to think of a way out of it.

Ten minutes later, he’s standing in front of a small, one story cottage in a little clearing, surrounded by trees, and he hasn’t come up with anything. All roads lead to Sammy. He can wait until John’s distracted and run, but he doesn’t know where his brother is or how to get to him. He knows the mechanics of driving a car, but he’s never done it and he isn’t tall enough for his feet to reach the pedals anyway. He thinks about warning whoever’s in there, but he doesn’t know if they’ll believe him or if that even matters. There must be a way to stop a demon, kill it or exorcise it, but he doesn’t know how. He doubts the occupants of some quaint little farm house in the middle of Iowa do either.

It takes a few more minutes to make himself knock on the door. He’s absolutely sure it’s a death sentence for someone, but if he doesn’t do it, he’s also sure John could find another way.

“Who’s there?” The voice on the other side is gruff and male and Dean has to take a steadying breath before speaking.

“Please, I…” what does he say? “I need your help.”

He doesn’t have to fake the shake in his voice or the desperation behind it. He gets Sammy back when they finish the job.

“Name?”

“Dean.” He hesitates, but John hadn’t said to lie. “Winchester.”

The door opens immediately and he finds himself facing a tall, skinny man with a half growth of beard and sickly pale skin. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a tweed jacket. When he speaks, his accent is faintly northern. He doesn’t fit in this setting, but he’s there and that says something, even if Dean doesn’t know what it is. “Winchester? John’s boy?”

Dean’s mind whirls at the realization that this man knows his father, at least by name. His knows him well enough to know he has a son. It takes him a few gut-wrenching moments to nod his head, because he hasn’t thought for a moment this would be someone who knew him or knew _of_ him. He doesn’t remember his dad ever talking about family or friends in Iowa and it’s not impossible, but it seems more likely that this man is one of the contacts his dad made in that year before he was possessed.

“Where’s your dad, son?”

In the long walk there he hadn’t thought that maybe this could be someone who knew about the monsters and demons, but now he can’t stop thinking it, because there has to be a way to get his dad back and this is the closest he’s come to someone who might be able to help him. This is the closest he’s come to what he’s been listening for in random grocery stores all over the country the last four years, but Sammy…

John had said to do what he had to get in and he didn’t say anything else. Dean thinks this is the best chance he’s going to get for help. He won’t even be disobeying the demon. He takes a deep, shaking breath and says, “He’s possessed.”

“Shit.” The man opens the door wider. Dean takes the invitation and steps in over what he notices is a line of something white at the base of the door. Salt, he has a line of salt at the door, which means he knows something is after him. “Are you okay? Where’s your brother?”

“I don’t know. He took him somewhere.”

The room isn’t large and it isn’t decorated with anything more then a ratty sofa, old television and a table covered in weapons in the far corner. The man brushes hair out of Dean’s face, looking at him closely and it takes Dean a minute to remember the throbbing bruise there and that his eyes are probably blood shot and specked in red from crying earlier.

The man runs a thumb high up Dean’s cheek and it stings. He must be cut, but he didn’t look in the mirror after John left with Sammy – he’d been too worried and too ashamed at crying to look at himself. “How did you find me?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that, so he deflects with, “Are you a Hunter? Dad said something about Hunters and I’ve never met any, but…” He looks at the guns, “Can those kill a demon?”

“No. I don’t know of anything that can actually kill a demon, but you can exorcise one – send its ass straight back to hell.” The man drops his hand to Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, there have been rumors for… a while now. How long has John been possessed?”

“’Bout four years.”

Before Dean can realize what’s happening, there are arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He freezes. Dean’s what the teacher’s call anti-social and his peers call weird. He doesn’t like being touched and he doesn’t do affection with anyone other then his brother. It’s been a long time since anyone even tried to hug him and longer since they succeeded. The last time was the mom of one of the other kids at a daycare who thought he was having a bad day. It had been strange and stiff and uncomfortable.

This was firm and hard and it felt like when his father hugged him after their mom died. It was reassuring and warm and he’s stiff for only a few seconds before he relaxes into it, because this man knows. He knows what demons are, he knows what they’re capable of and he knows what Dean’s lost. Really knows.

They stand there for only a while, Dean isn’t sure how long, but his eyes are burning and he’s just managing not to cry again. When the man pulls back, he doesn’t take his hands off Dean’s shoulders. He looks him in the eye with something that Dean thinks is understanding and asks again. “How did you find me?”

Dean hesitates again before admitting the truth, because he doesn’t think he can lie right now. More importantly, he doesn’t want to. “He brought me here.”

The man nods, but Dean pushes on, like an apology, “He took Sammy away and told me to come here. I don’t know…”

“I do.” The man is standing now, moving to that far corner where the guns are, leaving Dean standing next to the door. He doesn’t sound angry, just matter of fact. “I know what it wants. I don’t know why, but I know it isn’t getting it.”

Then the door bursts in and John is standing in the open frame in his leather jacket and dark washed jeans, smile dimpling his cheek on one side, like he’s been listening in for the perfect moment to make his entrance. He probably was. Dean tries not to pay attention to the demon unless he has to, but they live in close quarters and he’s noticed how John loves to make an impression – whether it’s a teacher or waitress or Hunter he’s about to kill.

“Carl! Long time no see.”

“Dean, get away from the door.” The hunter grabs a gun and aims it at the open frame, no matter what he said about not being able to kill one.

John counters with, “Dean, break the salt line.”

The gun cocks and Dean can’t breathe, can’t bring himself to move either way. If he does what John says, he’s sentencing Carl to whatever John has planned for him. Carl could help him, maybe. He could find a way to get the demon out of his dad and end the nightmare of uncertainty Dean’s been living in, but he doesn’t know where Sammy is and if he does what Carl says, John could leave and they might never find his brother.

They’re both watching him now, Carl edges a little closer, but Dean steps back, closer to the door, so he stops. “Dean, look at me. I will help you find Sammy. I will do everything I can to get you your family back, but you have to step away from the door and let me handle this.”

John leans against the door frame and waits and Dean knows what he’s waiting for and he knows he’s going to do it, he just can’t make himself move. “You know what? Go ahead, Dean, let him pump Daddy full of bullets.”

“Dean, whatever it says, you don’t listen to it.”

“Come on, Carl. You know better.”

“I know demons lie.”

“Only when we have to. Or when we want to. Or when it’s fun. Right now, though, how about _you_ tell him what happens to Daddy if you shoot me.”

Dean hadn’t thought about that, but what does happen? Carl said the bullets wouldn’t hurt the demon, but what would it do to the body? He has no idea what’s going on or what this is about or why he’s there, but he wants to hear the answer to that question and he wants to hear it from this man, Carl. He’ll believe it if Carl says it, because Carl is a Hunter. “What… what’s he talking about?”

“Dean, you need to listen to me. That is not your father.”

“I know that.”

“It hasn’t been your father for four years.”

“I know that!”

John chuckles, “Come on, Carl, tell the boy. What happens if you shoot me?”

Carl hesitates then sighs in resignation, “It won’t kill the demon, but it might do too much damage to the body for it to repair. The demon can keep the body going indefinitely, but if you exorcise it, John dies.”

He can’t give himself time to think about it. This is his dad they’re talking about. He’s put up with four years of hell in the hope that he can figure out a way to get him back and that doesn’t happen if he lets Carl fire that gun. If he lets Carl handle this, his dad is as good as dead and he might never see Sammy again. So, he can’t let himself hesitate as he shoves his foot forward and breaks the line, then presses himself back against the wall and hopes he made the right call.

 

 

*****

 

 

It’s dawn before the screaming stops and doesn’t pick back up again shortly after. Dean’s on the tattered little sofa, curled up and sunken into the corner, trying to remember why he’d done it, because he keeps thinking that maybe Carl was right. What if they could have found Sammy without John? Or what if Carl could have tortured John to find out where he was?

What if he didn’t, though? What if Dean sacrificed his dad – because he knows that’s what it would have come to – and they didn’t get Sammy back? Or if he’d chosen to go with Carl and John had still managed to get in and overtake them and then Dean was left with a very pissed off demon that he’d openly defied with more then just words? There are so many ways everything could have gone wrong, which is how Dean knows, really deep down, that he did the right thing, but that doesn’t make listening to Carl scream any easier.

The quiet settles into him harder then the screaming did, because he knows either Carl’s dead or he will be soon. A door opens and closes somewhere on the other side of the kitchen. Dean hasn’t gotten up to look around the house. He has to piss, but he’s afraid he’ll see something, so he stays where he is. John steps out of the kitchen, wiping blood off his hand onto a towel and stops just inside the living space.

He watches Dean for a few minutes or seconds, it’s hard to tell right now, because Dean’s waiting to hear Carl’s dead and it’s his fault, but if it was between this one man he doesn’t know and Sammy, then it’s Sammy and Dean just has to remind himself that’s the choice he was making.

John doesn’t say that, though. He drops the red stained rag to the ground and leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest casually and asks, “Do you know why I’m here?”

Dean isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say to that, so he sticks with the obvious. “He had something you wanted.”

“Yes, but no. Not why I’m here in this cabin. Why am I in John Winchester? Easier ways, you know? Say what you want, but Johnny-boy knew how to make an impression. When it comes to Hunters that knew him, I’d be better off taking another host and using the element of surprise. So, why didn’t I?”

Dean isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s asked himself ‘why them’ a thousand times in his own head, but never been able to put a voice to it. He can’t now either.

“Okay, let’s try this another way. Do you know what I do?”

Dean shakes his head numbly.

John smiles slyly and pushes off the wall, making his way across the living room and over to the table with its useless guns. “I’m in acquisitions and securities. My… employer, for lack of a better word, sends me to find things for him and keep them safe until he needs them.”

“My dad…?”

“Close.” He crouches next to the table and feels the wooden panels of the wall, pushing, knocking, then pressing his hand into them and shifting, testing each one individually. “Try again.”

His first thought is him, but no, because if he was supposed to be keeping Dean secure, he wouldn’t have risked letting him anywhere near a hunter, which means, “Sammy?”

“Bingo!” The panels under his hand shifts with his movements and he slides it up, reaches in and pulls out what looks like an old, leather bound book. “My employer was concerned that your father was going to figure certain things out and that, if he did, he would try and hide Sammy away from us and we need Sammy. Not right now, but eventually.”

“Why?”

“That’s need to know, Dean, and you don’t.” John pulls a chair over and sits, knees spread, elbows on his thigh and the book hanging in a relaxed grip. “What you do need to know, is that you have nothing to do with it. I had full permission to dispose of your rotting corpse the minute I walked in the door.”

Dean wants to ask why again, but his throat closes up and he can’t get the words out.

“Lucky for you, I don’t do diapers and you’re entertaining. You’re a pent up little ball of rage, but you’re smart. Watching you struggle with that is amusing as hell. Let’s just say, you grew on me. I actually kind of like having you around, but I want to make one thing perfectly clear. Are you listening, Dean?” He nods. “I don’t need you anymore. Sammy might be upset if you were to suddenly disappear, but accidents happen and he’d get over it – or near enough. I’m not supposed to be keeping him happy, just alive and under my thumb for now.”

“So before you think about taking Sammy and running away, I want you to remember that I tracked down a book that’s only been seen by a handful of people since the eighteen hundreds. I can find two little kids that share this body’s DNA and when I find you, Dean – not if, _when_ – I might just decide you don’t amuse me anymore.”

Dean swallows down a thick rise of bile as John sets the book on the table and gets up. “Now, I’m going to go finish with the soon to be late Mr. Carl Worth and you are going to make yourself useful and wipe down any trace that either of us was here. I suggest you do a thorough job.”

 

 

*****

 

 

They stopped twenty minutes out from the little cabin, pulling onto a side road that’s less defined then the one they’d taken to get to the Hunter. Dean doesn’t feel like talking, so he doesn’t ask what they’re doing. He doesn’t even really care anymore. All he wants is to get back to Sammy and try to put the image of the body, its head twisted in an unnatural angle, out of his mind. He doesn’t want to think about the wide vacant eyes, or the fingers John had him pick up off the floor to add to the fire. He doesn’t want to think about the blown out knee caps or the glint of what might have been intestines visible through a gut wound.

When the car stops, they’re in a clearing. John takes a few minutes to look around before opening the passenger door. “Come on.”

The air’s damp with morning dew, warm the way early summer is. The ground sinks a little beneath in his sneakers and Dean waits for John to tell him what to do. He just wants Sammy. He needs Sammy.

“Take it.” Dean looks up from the ground and is startled to see the butt of a gun being held out to him. His first instinct is that John is being incredibly stupid, because if it’s loaded – John always keeps his weapons fully loaded at all times – then what’s to stop Dean from shooting him? Right, because he won’t be shooting the demon, he’ll be shooting his dad and it won’t even do any good.

He takes the gun with a heavy sigh and watches as John fishes a bottle off the floor of the backseat and sets it on a rock maybe ten feet away before stepping back to stand behind Dean.

“When you can hit that, we go get Sammy.” Then he leans against the car and waits.

Dean looks at the gun. He looks at the bottle and then he widens his stance like he’s seen John do a few times when he stopped between towns and used various inanimate objects as target practice to relieve the boredom of the open road. He uses both hands on the grip and tilts his head instinctively as he lines the sight up and squeezes the trigger. The bottle explodes on the rock and Dean lets the gun fall, but doesn’t relinquish his grip, because it feels good. It feels like power. It feels like he can’t stop John with it, it won’t hurt the demon, but he dares anything else to fuck with him right now when his head is a mess of blood and regret and that desperate need to have his brother where he can see and protect him.

From behind him, a huffed laugh catches in his ear, “Oh, Dean, I might just have a real use for you yet.”

They go through the entire clip. It isn’t much, but Dean doesn’t miss a single shot.

 

 

*****

 

 

The house they pull up to later that evening is a run down bungalow in the worst part a large city. It can’t be more then six hundred square feet of run down rectangle set on a small, square of property lined with a chain link fence. There’s trash all over the lawn and Dean cringes as they walk down a path littered with cans of beer, cigarette butts, rusted needles and, dear god, there was a used condom shriveled up in the grass near the door.

What kind of person had John left Sammy with? Okay, well, to be fair, it probably isn’t a person. Actually, Dean finds himself hoping it is a demon, because at least a demon won’t hurt Sammy. They want him for something and that might be bad in the long run, but in the here and now it means he’s not in danger of coming to any real harm under their supervision.

The door rattles under John’s knock and the woman that opens it is more of a rung out stick then a real person. She’s yellowy pale and skinny enough that Dean knows she’s possessed by her sheer ability to stand steady without support. Her hair hangs dark and to her waist, her doe eyes are sunken and stained nearly black underneath. She’s dressed in torn jeans that barely hang onto protruding hip bones and a tank top that sinks in bellow her exaggerated rib cage. His eyes instantly land on the scarred track of puncture marks lining her arm. Crack addict, then, but she wasn’t twitching.

Her smile lights up too big in a too thin face. Her teeth are yellow and at least two of the front ones are decayed to the point of rotting. “Johnny! Come give us a kiss.”

John scowls, “Really? You couldn’t find anything… cleaner?”

“Short notice.”

Now Dean’s sure she’s possessed. Not just their exchange of words, but her un-slurred speech. Her eyes slip down to him and he fights the urge to hide behind John, because he suddenly understands the old saying, ‘better the devil you know, than the one you don’t.’ He knows how to handle John. He knows, now more then ever, what John wants from him. This woman is something else entirely and the way she drags her eyes up and down his four foot frame makes him uncomfortable in a way he isn’t familiar with.

He can’t hide behind John, though. John knows her, he must trust her if he left Sammy in her care and, more importantly, Dean doesn’t actually trust John to protect him from anything. So, he narrows his eyes instead and returns her gaze and she laughs. “Go on, he’s asleep on the couch.”

Dean does his best not touch her, but can’t avoid a brush of his elbow against her hip as he steps into the house. It’s dark and smells like body odor and piss. As his eyes adjust, he sees Sammy curled into a corner of a small couch, taking up as little room as possible. He’s in the same pajamas John dragged him out in and his face is red, dried tear tracks down his cheeks.

“Sammy?” He keeps his voice soft and low, but Sammy startles anyway. He jerks awake and back from Dean for a second, until he really sees who he’s next to and then launches forward, nearly knocking them off the sofa as he buries his face in Dean’s chest. “Hey, it’s okay, Sammy, come on, look at me.”

It takes him a minute to get Sammy to look up. John and the woman are talking behind him, but he doesn’t listen, because they don’t matter. Sammy matters and he has to know that his brother isn’t hurt. If John hurt Sammy… but Sammy finally looks up and besides obvious signs of crying, he isn’t bruised or bloody and he doesn’t look anything other then just relieved to see Dean.

“I did… I didn’t know when… when you were… coming and… and…”

“Sh, it’s okay. I’m here now.” Dean wraps his arms around Sammy and pulls him back against him again. “Did she hurt you?”

The head at his chest shakes and he sighs in relief as he helps Sammy stand and walk carefully across the floor, because Sammy is barefoot and Dean doesn’t want him to step on anything that might hurt him or, worse, infect him. John gives them a raised eyebrow as Dean works them through the door, past the woman he’s steadfastly ignoring, because he doesn’t want to see her smile at him again.

“We’ll wait in the car.”

John nods, but he’s too busy following her inside the house to really watch as they make the treacherous walk from the door to the car. They get in the backseat and it’s quick work to make sure they’re locked in and then he tucks Sammy back against him. Inside the car it’s too warm and the air is a little stifling, but it’s better then out there. It smells like leather and the seats are worn and comforting and Dean relaxes for the first time in nearly eighteen hours.

He has Sammy, now he just has to work on keeping him.


	3. Chapter 3

Of all the new things John decides to teach him, Dean likes guns best. Knives can do serious damage, but damage isn’t what Dean wants. Damage leaves room for error. Guns get the job done quicker, especially since Dean’s good at aiming. He’s damn good. By the end of the summer he can hit a moving target in the head from a good twenty feet away and he’s getting better.

It’s animals mostly and empty bottles when it’s not. They take Sammy with them and John calls it hunting with a smirk that Sammy doesn’t get, but the joke is for Dean – a play on what his dad would have been teaching him if the demon hadn’t weaseled his way into some crack in the armor and made itself at home. It stings more then it should, or maybe less, because when John reaches over and tugs at Dean’s hair and tells him he did good, it sounds like praise and Dean doesn’t want to like that, not from this thing, but he almost can’t help it.

Overall, he’s relieved when school starts again. School is boring and monotonous and mostly meaningless, but it’s a break from the crazy, especially now that Sammy’s in Kindergarten. With them both in school, John doesn’t have to worry about nosy daycare workers wanting to brief him on Sammy’s progress every day and after the first few weeks, they even let Dean walk Sammy home, so John doesn’t need to be there at the end of each day.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise the first time John leaves for two days over a weekend. John says he’ll be back and walks out Friday night, then doesn’t walk back in until dawn Monday morning as Dean’s trying to get them out the door. He stops Dean on his way out the door with Sammy, one hand on his shoulder and asks, “Any problems?”

Dean looks at up, confused by what he means. Sammy’s never a problem and two days isn’t that long. Even when John was there, it isn’t like he actively participates in anything, so he isn’t sure what kind of problems he expected there to be, but either way, Dean shakes his head. “No.”

“Good.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes lightly before letting go and Dean takes the opportunity to all but run out the door. It isn’t that he thinks John will hurt him – the incident with the table aside, John’s never hit either of them or even threatened violence. Not that Dean doesn’t think he would or even that he didn’t want to. John’s a demon and those hours listening to Carl Worth scream were enough to convince Dean of what he’s capable of, but if they started showing up with bruises, people might ask questions. Social Services would make house calls. John could soothe some things over, but too many red flags and things could get out of hand. Dean doesn’t like to think about what that would mean.

So, he doesn’t think the hand on his shoulder is a warning, or a threat or anything like that, it’s that the whole physical contact thing is new. John’s never been much on touching either of them unless he has to, but ever since he started teaching Dean the finer arts of killing things bloody, he’s been a little freer with it. The hardest part is that Dean can’t say he doesn’t like it. It’s not his dad touching him, but it’s his dad’s hand and there’s too much approval behind it, something he wishes he could get from his real dad, but John is the only thing he has next to Sammy.

He hates it. Hates the demon. Hates his dad, sometimes, too. Hates himself more. He hates that he doesn’t know what to do, but that he can’t just sit around doing nothing. He hates that he’s only nine and no one would take him seriously. He hates that he’s afraid to try, because what if they did? What if they tried to take Sammy and him away from John? What would John do to them and what would he do to Dean for it? Carl was a Hunter and John didn’t break a sweat taking him down. There has to be a way. He _knows_ there’s a way, he just doesn’t know what it is and he doesn’t know how to start looking for it.

 

 

*****

 

 

When Sammy’s asleep later, John sits him down.

“I have another job.” He stiffens. “I don’t need your help just yet, but I will be gone a lot. You’ll have to keep your head down, keep it quiet – don’t give anyone a reason to come poking around. Think you can do that?”

Dean nods slowly as John reaches into a duffel bag he’s set on the table. Dean’s seen that bag before, usually locked in the car, because he doesn’t want Dean getting into it. It’s what his dad kept their weapons in, an old army surplus bag that he brought home with him from his days in the military. It’s almost sacrilegious that John uses it now, but somehow Dean doubts the demon cares about that.

He takes a gun off the top and hands it over. Dean automatically checks the clip and finds it loaded. “You shouldn’t need this, but in case anyone tries to break in, you’ll have it.”

Right, because, once again, they aren’t settled into the best area of town. The next thing he pulls out is a knife, but it isn’t like any knife Dean’s seen before. It’s got symbols carved up the blade and John holds it a second, as if he’s reconsidering, before taking the blade end and holding it out for Dean to take.

“This is pure silver. It won’t hurt a demon, but other supernatural creatures have something like an allergy to silver. It’ll kill some of them.”

The symbols aren’t any language Dean recognizes, it could be Chinese or Japanese, but he isn’t exactly well versed in languages, so he can’t even begin to guess what they mean or where they’re from. One side is serrated, one is smooth and it hooks strangely at the end.

“I haven’t gotten word that there’s anything else gunning for us, but before I took over Daddy managed to make a few enemies and I haven’t exactly kept his nose clean since then.” Dean scowls at that, but if John notices, he doesn’t say anything. “If something comes through that door, you do what you have to, to get Sammy out and hide. I’ll find you.”

Of course he will. It’s a promise and a threat. Don’t run because I’ll find you, but if you have to, don’t worry, I’ll find you. Dean doesn’t want that to be comforting, but he can’t say that it isn’t. He sets the weapons on the table as John shoulders the bag. “I’ll be back by the end of the week.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Life without John around is relaxing. It’s waking up in time to get them to school, coming home, helping Sammy with his homework and then vegging out in front of the television with Sammy until they can’t keep their eyes open. The thing is, it isn’t even that much different from what they do when John’s there, except Dean doesn’t feel the constant thrum in the back of his head that comes from being watched. He doesn’t feel the pressure behind his eyes from putting up a front for his brother that everything is okay, because without John there, it kind of is.

For the next several months, John is out more then he’s in. He comes back, crashes for a few days, stocks the fridge and leaves again. They flip towns three times before Christmas. Sammy makes friends every time, but the superficial kind that he doesn’t talk about once they get out of school and Dean only knows about them, because he sees Sammy in the halls sometimes. It’s purely selfish, but he doesn’t ask about the friends because he doesn’t want to hear about them. He asks about the teachers and homework and Sammy shows off words that he can read. His favorite one is Dean.

“D. E. N… No! D. E. _A_. N. Dean!”

John scoffs in the kitchen and Dean glares at him, which turns the scoff into a chuckle and screw it and screw him. This has nothing to do with him. They’re a week away from Christmas and with the holidays fast approaching, he’s stopped leaving. One neighbor has already made some half assed remark about not seeing him around lately, only cementing what John believes about being in the apartment for the four week surrounding Christmas and New Years.

John raises an eyebrow at Dean’s glare, “Sammy.” Sammy looks over, eyes wide with a kind of shell shock and being addressed directly by John. “Can you spell anything else?”

Sammy looks at Dean for approval and Dean shrugs. “Um… cat? C. A. T. and Dog. D. O. G.”

There’s a moment of silence, then, “How about gun?”

Sammy frowns and his brows drew together, oblivious to Dean’s redoubled glare at John. “Gun? Guh… guh… G. uh. U. Gun. nn. nnn N. G. U. N. Gun.”

John smiles, “Not bad.”

Sammy beams and Dean grits his teeth, because John can’t do that. He can’t just step in, say a few words, and get Sammy to smile like that. It isn’t fair, especially when he’s already walking out and Sammy looks a little hurt at the sudden dismissal, but mostly confused. Dean sighs and redirects, “Hey, how about pig?”

 

 

*****

 

 

Sometimes he wants to tell Sammy about John so badly it’s a physical ache in his chest. He can’t stand the look on Sammy’s face when John ignores him, because Sammy is starting to get old enough to know that isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. He’s started to notice other father’s picking their kids up and hugging them and tickling them and he’s starting to wonder what’s wrong with them that John doesn’t do that.

He doesn’t ask about it, just like Dean doesn’t ask things, because there are some answers you don’t want to hear. Dean tries to come up with a lie, but he doesn’t know where to begin, so he tries to tell him the truth, only that’s worse. Sammy’s only five and if Dean was five when the demon first came home wearing their dad, then that was fucked up, but it doesn’t mean he has to pass that on to Sammy. Better to let Sammy live with the half truth that the thing they think is their father is a neglectful piece of shit. Dean just has to mitigate the damage by being the best big brother he can, which isn’t hard, because Sammy is the best little brother he could hope for.

“I made something for you!” Sammy throws his bag on the sofa and sits next to it, digging through the mess of crumbled papers and comes up with a plastic beaded bracelet strung on a black cleaner. “It’s a birthday present!”

Dean turns it over in his hand and he couldn’t be prouder. It’s a bracelet of wooden beads, most natural, pale brown, but a few stained in orange and green.

Sammy sits on his knees on the sofa, elbows pressed into the back while he watches Dean, waiting anxiously for a reaction. “I thought maybe you could wear it if you went hunting again? For good luck.”

It was a little big when he slipped it on, but he shoves Sammy’s bag aside and sits on the sofa, pulling Sammy into a hug. “Love it, Sammy. I’ll have to restring it on leather, okay? So, it doesn’t break.”

Sammy smiles so big its all dimples and teeth and they settle in for a night of forgetting to do their homework and watching late night cartoons.

Long after Sammy’s passed out with his head resting on Dean’s thigh, he lays back against the arm of the sofa and looks at the bracelet hanging too loosely on his wrist. Eventually, John’s going to drag him out again. They haven’t talked about it, but Dean isn’t quite naïve enough to convince himself that John taught him to shoot a gun just so he can protect Sammy. He had a reason, he still does, and Dean’s one hundred percent sure he’s not going to like it. It’s going to be messy and bloody and it’s going to involve leaving Sammy behind again. This, though? If he has to sit there and listen to another person being tortured, at least he has this to remind himself why he’s doing it. More importantly, though, it’s the first birthday present he’s gotten in five years and he’s never taking it off.

 

 

*****

 

 

“I hope you understand, Mr. Winchester. I don’t take this lightly.”

Dean’s so screwed.

“Bringing a weapon to school is a very serious offense.”

So, so screwed. John’s eyeing the knife laid out on the desk in front of him, his hands and eye twitch like he wants to grab for it, but is just managing to restrain himself.

“The only reason I haven’t written this up is that I don’t think he intended to use it, but I can’t ignore it, either.”

He glances sidelong at John, but the demon’s eyes are fixed on the blade and Dean swallows thick. He fucked up and John’s going to get rid of him now. He’s going to decide keeping Dean around isn’t worth the entertainment value if it gets him called out to the school for a conference about why Dean brought a freaking knife and not just any knife. Maybe if it was a little Boy Scout switch blade, he’d be okay, but it was the one John had given him to protect Sammy, with the six inch blade and the serrated edge and the curved tip that could slide into someone’s gut like it was made of butter. Somehow the fact that it’s been laid out with the symbols facing up makes it worse.

John finally manages to drag his eyes from the knife to the teacher and his features smooth out into his usual, charming, apologetic smile and Dean isn’t fooled for a second, he’s still screwed to hell and back – probably literally.

“I apologize, Ms…?”

“Yates, Mr. Winchester.”

“Yes, Ms. Yates, of course. You said you haven’t reported this?”

She hesitates, because it doesn’t take much imagination to know where this is going. “No.”

“Like I said, I apologize. The knife is a sort of family heirloom. My father brought it back with him from the war and Dean’s always been a bit curious about it. He must have snuck it out of the house this morning. I hope no one got hurt.”

It shouldn’t, but it always amazes Dean how seamlessly the demon can lie. He always feels like he can see straight through it and he doesn’t understand why no one else can.

“No, of course, not. I can assure you this would be an entirely different conversation if they had.”

“Good. If you don’t mind, I’d like to try and deal with this on my own. Dean’s a good kid, but with his mom dead and me working so much, it’s hard on him.”

“I don’t know. This is serious. Mr. Winchester, if it gets back that I…”

“It won’t.” He reaches a hand out and takes hers, earnest smile and creased cheeks and Dean can see her melt.

“All right. Just this once, but if I catch him with it again, I’ll have to file a report. With the police.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” They talk for a while longer, about Dean’s anti-social behavior since his mother’s death, about Sammy, about how hard it’s been on John raising the boys on his own and how much he appreciates everything the school does for them and how nice it is that there are teachers here who really care. It’s the same pandering load of bullshit that John fed every daycare worker over the last few years and just like them, Ms. Yates eats it right out of his hand until she’s blushing softly and walking them to the door with a smile.

As soon as she’s out of sight, the smile drops like a mask from John’s face and Dean’s chest tightens in apprehension. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“Shut up, Dean. Get in the car.”

Silently, he slips into the seat and John closes the passenger door behind him. He doesn’t know what to say or do. He wants to run, because he really, really doesn’t want to die. He can’t leave Sammy alone to this. God, if he dies, Sammy won’t even know what he’s dealing with, because Dean hasn’t told him. John will tell him there was an accident and Sammy will believe it, because he doesn’t have a reason not to. John’s their father and with the exception of one incident last year that Sammy didn’t even see, he’s never hurt them.

A hand grabs his face, forces his head around to look at John with eyes wide, unfocused. He’s hyperventilating. He can’t breathe and John squeezes his jaw so tight it’s bruising and he manages to pull one long, slow breath in, then another and John nods approvingly before letting go.

“I wasn’t…”

“You either shut your mouth or I shut it for you.”

In the absence of words, Dean closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. In and out, slow and steady, his mind running through every stupid thing John could and probably intends to do to him. He hadn’t thought… He’s been carrying the stupid knife all year. It hasn’t left his bag, because John said that if something tries to get in, get Sammy out and run and he wanted to be ready for that. There’s thirty bucks in there, too, stuck in the front pocket of his binder. The gun stays under his pillow.

Now that he’s been caught, he realizes that maybe carrying a hunting knife in a worn out bag with a busted zipper was a bad idea, but he hadn’t counted on getting into a fight. He keeps his head down, doesn’t talk much, and doesn’t bother anyone. He’s not sure why assholes one and two decided he was an easy target or why they thought it was funny to shove him from behind. He’s also not sure what prompted him to punch asshole one in the face or kick asshole two in the stomach when he rushed forward to help his friend, but he is sure that when they fell in a tangle of fists onto the ground and the knife fell out of his bag, he hadn’t been picking it up to use it. He wasn’t even going to threaten them. He was going to put it in his bag and run. He isn’t stupid, he knew how much trouble he’d be in if he was caught with a knife, but then Ms. Yates came around the corner and it was in his hand and the guys were freaking out and everything just went downhill from there.

As far as he knows, John took Sammy home before coming back to have his discussion with the teacher, but he knows they aren’t heading home now. They’re going in the opposite direction of the little apartment a few blocks from the school. Then they’re getting on the freeway and Dean can’t stop himself from saying, “What about Sammy?”

“He’s being taken care of.”

That isn’t what he meant, but he nods anyway, because he isn’t sure he won’t start trying to beg if he opens his mouth again. The words are right there in the back of his mouth, waiting to come out. _Please, don’t kill me. I won’t do it again. I can do better. I’ll stay in the apartment. I won’t even go back to school. Anything, please, just don’t take me away from Sammy._ He swallows them down, because he can and it won’t be long before he won’t be able to stop himself.

 

 

*****

 

 

The problem with begging is, it won’t get him anywhere. He knows this, because John doesn’t have a soul, or a conscience. He keeps Dean around so that he doesn’t have to take care of Sammy and because Dean’s entertaining, but Dean ceases to be entertaining when he starts being a nuisance and Sammy’s getting old enough to take care of himself. Killing Dean won’t affect John anymore then killing Carl did. The only difference is he’ll have to put up with a very emotional Sammy after, but Dean doesn’t think for a minute that’ll stop John.

So, by the time they pull up to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the night, Dean’s mostly managed to tap down on that instinctive urge to beg. His stomach is so twisted in knots, he’s going to throw up. He’s going to lose it all over the inside of the car and he wonders if that’s even going to make a difference. Will it make his death slower and more painful, or…?

John opens the passenger door and yanks Dean out by his arm, hard enough that the flash of pain couples with the tension and Dean does throw up. Thankfully, not on John’s shoes, because the demon lets him go a second later, apparently sensing what’s about to happen. He drops to knees and barely manages to stay upright through the heaves until he’s spitting up bile and then nothing. He gags once more, on nothing, before coughing into the back of his hand and then he just kneels over the rancid smell of vomit, panting and shaking.

Beg, cry or throw up, he isn’t sure which is worse, but he’s kind of glad his body went with throw up, because he doubts John will think less of him for it and why does he even care about that? John isn’t his dad, he isn’t even a person, he’s a demon and what he does or doesn’t think about Dean shouldn’t matter.

Except when John kneels down and puts a hand on Dean’s back and asks, “You done?” It isn’t harsh. It isn’t kind, either, but he doesn’t sound pissed or disgusted.

After another deep breath, Dean nods and John takes his arm again, just as hard, but he lets Dean follow him this time. The skies lighting up bright with a storm that’s moving in, but it’s the wrong color, almost like the lightening is tinting orange red instead of white.

John looks at it and there’s a smirk on his mouth and a twinkle in his eye as he says, “Storms coming.”

Before Dean can ask what that means – because it has to mean something – they’re at the door. John doesn’t let go of Dean as he pulls a large double barrel riffle out of the back of his jeans with his free hand and a second later the metal doors of the warehouse blow open. Actually, no, they blow off the rails entirely, fall with heavy thuds onto the floor and Dean flinches, despite himself, despite knowing better.

Inside, there are two men, a load of weapons and a book open on a crate between them. They’re eyes are fixed on John and Dean, frozen at the sudden entrance. John tips his head at them and raises the rifle. A second later, the head of the right one blows open like the doors and Dean can’t help trying to pull away now, really try, not just from reflex. John lets him go and he scrambles back against the wall, pressing himself there while John keeps moving.

“Bill! Long time no see.”

The Hunter left is standing, gun raised, but he isn’t firing, because Dean’s guessing he knows it won’t do any good. The man isn’t as tall as John, but he’s built. His features are sharp and angular, his blond hair clipped short, and he looks all kind of mean glaring at John. When he speaks, his voice is deep and confident, “You aren’t Winchester.”

John stops a few feet away, smiling, “I am now.”

Bill looks over at Dean where he’s trying to make himself as small as he can against the wall. He doesn’t know what this is about, but he knows he wants to run and he can’t. He stands still as Bill’s eyes settle on him. “You’re Dean, right?”

When Dean stays silent and unmoving, John chimes in. “You can answer him, son.”

“He is not your son!” Bill’s gun cocks. “Dean, is your brother still alive?”

This time he does nod, because John said it was okay and maybe… maybe this isn’t about him, not like he was afraid it was. Maybe John isn’t going to kill him.

John throws Dean an approving glance before turning back to Bill, whose attention is shifting continuously between the two of them. “Now that’s out of the way, let’s get down to business.”

“What business?”

“Dean has a bad habit of not thinking things through, but you know, I think that might be my fault. See, I didn’t explain things to him properly. Like about how demons and monsters aren’t the only things tracking us. Isn’t that right, Bill?”

Bill’s finger tightens on the trigger and Dean thinks he might actually shoot and wonders if the demon is fast enough to get out of the way of the bullet or if he’ll even bother. Then he throws the gun to the side and John’s eyes automatically move to track it, just for a moment, which is more then enough time for Bill to pull a flask out of his back pocket and thumb it open, tossing the contents of what Dean knows has to be holy water, because it sizzles on the demon’s skin and John’s eyes go black as he snarls.

For a second, all Dean can think is that he’s really glad he never tried holy water, because John looks pissed. Christo might have been annoying, but it never hurt, this looks like it actually hurts him. Then the gun goes off in John’s hand and Bill’s on the ground clutching his knee, or what’s left of it.

John steps forward, straddling Bill’s legs and aims the gun at his gut. “Now that wasn’t very nice. I only came here to chat.”

“You killed Anthony.”

“I’ve killed a lot of people. Now, about that chat.”

“Go to hell.”

“Been there, done that, moving on. Tell Dean over there about the other thing tracking us.”

Bill looks as confused as Dean feels, but when he looks at Dean, there’s also determination. “I didn’t know your dad very long, Dean, only met him a few times, but he was a good man.”

“Blah, blah, blah, get to the point.”

He ignored the demon, still looking at Dean like these are dying words and they probably are. “We’ve been looking for you. Word got out John had been possessed and we’ve been looking ever since. We weren’t even sure you were alive until about a year ago. Surveillance at Worth’s place picked you up.”

There are Hunters looking for them? It makes sense, actually, because he’d thought John being able to leave them alone for longer stretches might mean they’d move a little less, but if anything, they’d moved more that year. Like they were running from something, or hiding. That’s exactly what they’ve been doing. Carl had cameras and now they know John’s possessed and that at least Dean is alive. John has been moving them around to keep Hunters from finding them, but why would he tell him? All that does is give Dean a better idea of what to do to get Sammy and him out.

He knows he can’t run and hide on his own, but a Hunter could help. Maybe. Probably. They’d have a better chance than Dean alone. Of course, John’s killed two Hunters without breaking a sweat and Dean doesn’t think he’s going to leave Bill alive. So, maybe not. Still, if he got desperate enough, this tells him that there’s help out there, that someone is looking for him and all he has to do is look back.

Bill sucks in breath as John shoves his wounded leg with a foot. “Fuck, John, I know you’re in there. We will not stop looking for your boys. You fight that son of a bitch, but we will not stop looking. We will find them and we will…”

“Shut up, Bill, or kiss your other knee goodbye. How many of you are there? Or, _were_ there?”

“Six.”

“Right, so that would be you, Anthony, Carl, Bobby, Jim and Caleb. Did you forget that little psychic back in Lawrence? I hear she keeps an ear to the ground, too.”

“Seven.”

“With you gone, that means they’re down to four. How much luck do you think three Hunters and a psychic are gonna have against me?”

“A lot more then you’ll give them credit for.”

John’s smile falters and he rests the barrel of the rifle on Bill’s forehead. “Maybe. Maybe I should go ahead and hunt them down.”

“Maybe you should _try_.” It’s a dare and a stupid one, but Dean’s grateful for it, because Bill knows more than Dean what demons can do and if he’s willing to put his friends in the line of fire, maybe they do stand a chance.

“Maybe.” John leans his weight on the barrel hard enough to drive Bill’s head back into the ground, then backs off, “Maybe I’ll just visit that wife of yours? Your pretty little girl? Last time John saw them, she was in diapers. How old is she now?”

“You stay away from them!”

A howl cut him off and John frowns, “Looks like our time’s almost up. I stay away from them if you and yours stay away from what’s mine.”

“Those boys aren’t yours!”

“They are now!” John’s dropped down, his nose inches away from Bill’s. Even from this far away, Dean can see the black in his eyes. “I give it five minutes before the Black Dogs get here, which means you have five minutes to leave that message. If a Hunter lays one finger on my boys, I will lay a world of hurt on your family.”

John backs up and he’s a good ten feet away before he turns his back to Bill and lifts Dean up by his arm again, half walking, half dragging him out. Dean can see eyes in the distance, red and floating in the dark of the trees a ways off. John stops long enough to stare back at them and they blink away, presumably back into the trees. “They’ll be back. Black Dogs can smell blood, but they can smell demons too and they aren’t stupid enough to go after their makers.”

“Makers?”

“Black Dogs aren’t anything more then the half breed bastard offspring of Hell Hounds.” Dean isn’t sure how that happens, but he is sure he doesn’t want to know. “They come with the lightening. Bill’s been tracking this storm for days now, waiting for an opportunity to put himself in front of it.”

He’s all but shoved into the car and he can hear the unearthly howl on the other side of the glass as John turns the engine and starts driving off. “They’ll kill him, won’t they?”

“Oh, yeah.” John grins, more to himself and the open road then to Dean. “They’ll eat him. If he’s lucky, they’re half starved enough to make it quick.”

Dean fought to feel anything other then numb. “How’s he gonna tell them to leave us alone if he’s dead?”

“He’ll write a note. It may take a few weeks for them to find the body, but they will and if he’s smart, there’ll be a note with his name and his family’s contact number on it.”

“If he’s not?”

“Then we’ll be taking another field trip in the near future.”

It’s not that Dean thinks he deserved it, because Bill was one of a few people that apparently cared enough about them and about Dean’s dad to actually look for them. Sometimes Dean feels like a ghost, like he’s just trying to get by without anyone noticing them, because when they do, bad things happen and he wants out. He really, really does, but he can’t keep going on hope alone. John isn’t so bad, really and Dean has absolutely no delusions about what he’s capable of. He doesn’t think John cares about them the way his father or even those Hunters do. Sammy is an assignment and Dean is useful and entertaining, but… but Dean can’t stop hearing it. Bill saying, ‘they aren’t your boys’ and John saying ‘they are now,’ eyes black, his face twisted in something that might have been anger, but Dean was too far away to tell for sure and when it’s just them, John isn’t bad. When Dean does what he’s told and doesn’t pull stupid stunts like getting caught with a knife at school, things are actually pretty good.

He’s not giving up on getting his dad back, he can’t do that, he _won’t_ , but Dean thinks maybe, just for a little while, he needs to keep his head down and go with it. They pull up to the little week to week apartment and John turns off the engine, but doesn’t get out of the car.

Dean looks at the single window, light filtering in through the heavy curtains drawn over it and sighs. “If Hunters come, I’ll take Sammy and hide. You’ll find us.”

He glances over, out of the corner of his eye, and John’s smiling. “I’ll always find you, Dean.”

That shouldn’t be as reassuring as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean doesn’t sleep much the next few weeks. He gets stuck in nightmares where John puts a gun to his head and pulls the trigger and he wakes up sweating and crying and begging and it’s scaring the hell out of Sammy. Eventually, John makes Dean sleep on the couch until the worst of it passes and he can get through a night without waking Sammy up.

They’d moved schools again, just in case, and with only two weeks till summer, no one really pays attention to them. No one has a frame of reference, so no one thinks twice about Dean being quiet or not paying attention in class. No one remarks on him losing a few pounds because he can’t get much down before he feels sick. It’s better that way, gives him space to deal without someone asking him too many questions that he might answer wrong.

Then school lets out and there aren’t any classes or teachers or nosey neighbors, because summer means constantly moving. It means shitty motels and sleeping in the car and eating diner food that can range from being the best thing he’s ever had to putting garbage in his mouth.

Summer also brings with it John’s special brand of training. Dean hadn’t been thinking about it, because he simply couldn’t. He’s been too sleep deprived and half starved to think about anything. Now John’s pressing a gun into his hand on the side of the road and telling him to come back when he’s killed something and it feels… it feels okay. Better then anything else has the last few weeks.

Despite John leaving the gun with him all year, he’s had surprisingly little to do with it. He’s had homework and Sammy and no one ever actually tried to break in. It’s been safely tucked between the mattress and box spring in every place they’ve stayed or in his duffel between moves. He’s forgotten how good it feels to not just hold it, but to do so with intent. He’s going to use it. He’s going to kill something. It might not be anything dangerous or particularly threatening – he’s pretty sure it’s going to be either Bambi or Thumper – but he’s still going to put a bullet in it.

He’s sure it says something about him that when he finally latches onto Thumper and puts not one, but the entire clip into it, he doesn’t want to analyze it. Instead, he takes the corpse back to John and drops it at his feet, like a cat bringing back kill for its owner.

John eyes the bloody mess of mutilated rabbit, littered with an excessive eight bullet holes and then back up at Dean, who is still holding the gun loosely in his grip. “Better?”

With a glance at Sammy, who’s sitting a few feet away picking apart pine needles and paying them no attention, Dean nods. Yeah, it is better and he’s perfectly aware of how fucked up that is, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not right now, anyway.

 

*****

 

The worst part of the nightmares, the worst part of that whole night with Anthony and Bill and the Black Dogs had been the idea that Dean would die and leave Sammy alone without a clue as to what’s going on and who John really is. That, more then the knowledge that he was going to die, was what drove Dean to his knees outside the car. He’d sat in the car, rolling the little brown beads between his thumb and forefinger, wishing he could talk to Sammy one more time, trying to figure out a way to convince John not to kill him so he could do just that. In his nightmares when he’s begging, it’s not for his life, it’s for Sammy.

_Please don’t take me away from Sammy_

_Sammy needs me._

_John, please, I can do better, just let me go back to Sammy._

He needs to tell Sammy the truth. He knows this, he knows it with bone-deep certainty and yet… and yet he can’t get it out. He looks at his brother, only six years old. Sammy knows John doesn’t love them the way other dad’s love their kids. John doesn’t pick them up or hug them, half the time he isn’t home and when he is, he barely acknowledges their existence unless he has to. Sammy doesn’t go to John if he needs something signed for school or if he needs help with homework or learning to tie his shoes. He doesn’t even look around for John, just goes to Dean.

Despite all of that, there’s a certain amount of trust Sammy has for the man. No, John isn’t going to win father of the year, but they’re never hungry, they’re about as clean as anyone their age ever is, and while he sometimes leaves Sammy with a demon possessed drug addict that won’t stop trying to play with his hair, he has yet to raise a hand to Sammy, so as far as his little brother is concerned, he can trust John. John keeps them safe and Dean provides everything else Sammy needs. It isn’t ideal, but it’s what he knows, it’s the only thing he’s ever known, and Dean can’t bring himself to rip that away just yet.

Telling Sammy John is a demon, is going to mean proving it and he’s pretty sure Sammy isn’t going to take that well. He’s pretty sure Sammy is going to lose what little trust he has for the thing calling itself their dad and Sammy’s only six. He should be allowed to trust his dad for at least a little longer.

Dean actively pushes aside the other possibility that scares him even more – the possibility that it won’t matter what John is and that Sammy will keep on trusting him, because if the demon hasn’t hurt them yet, maybe it’s not all bad and it is bad. Dean can accept that it has an agenda that prevents it from hurting them for now. He can let his guard down for a while, because he’s willing to admit he’s reached a point where he has to take a break or he’s going to lose it and do something stupid – like actually try to run when he doesn’t have a chance in hell of making it – but that doesn’t mean he forgets. His dad is counting on him, Sammy is counting on him. He just has to hang in there until he figures something else out.

He sits on the sofa with Sammy laid back against his chest, falling asleep to The Last Unicorn, until Sammy’s eyes fall closed and his breath evens out and it’s another day gone and he has to do it eventually, but not right now. Later.

 

*****

 

The problem with telling himself later is that later is subjective – later can mean a few days or weeks or months or, in Dean’s case, years. Six years and counting, actually.

Sammy’s glaring openly from across the room, his fists clenched like he might actually use them, but they both know he won’t. Sammy prefers words. He prefers to pitch his tone to the exact level he knows will make someone’s eye twitch.

“It’s not fair! Why do I have to stay behind?” There it is.

Dean sighs and refrains from rubbing his temples, because all that ever accomplishes is letting Sammy know he’s getting to him, which usually makes him press harder. John’s taught Dean so many things in the last year – marksmanship, tracking, beheading pigs, to name a few – but the one thing John can’t teach him is how to deal with a volatile twelve year old, because John is a demon. Demons don’t deal with those kinds of things. If this were up to John, Sammy would be tied to a chair and they’d have been on the road thirty minutes ago, but it’s not up to John. It’s up to Dean to explain to Sammy why he has to stay behind again and it’s also up to him to make sure John doesn’t have to listen to it. Hence, why John is waiting outside talking to the ‘babysitter’ while Dean deals with his brother.

“Because you’re twelve, Sammy, that’s why.”

“You used to watch both of us for weeks at a time when you were twelve!”

“That’s different!”

“How?!”

Because Sammy doesn’t know and that’s Dean’s fault. John’s perfectly content to let Dean fuck this up all on his own, the demonic bastard. “It just is, Sammy, okay? I’m sorry.”

For a second, he thinks Sammy is going to yell some more and he’s contemplating the merits of John’s suggestion to just tie him to a chair, but instead, Sammy’s back slumps against the wall, his voice lowering in defeat, “I don’t like her.”

“I know.”

“She makes me feel… really uncomfortable.”

“Lock yourself in the bathroom if you have to, we’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

Sammy’s not happy about it, but he never is. He doesn’t argue anymore, though, because twenty minutes of following Dean around trying to look as pathetic as he can manage and another ten trying to argue his way into the car haven’t gotten him anywhere and he knows he’s lost the battle. Hell, he lost the battle before he even started it. Dean knows what this job is and he isn’t letting Sammy within a fifty mile radius of it.

“Fine, but you owe me ice cream when you get back.”

“Dude, I’ll do you one better and take you to a movie, okay?”

That earns him a tentative smile, “Promise?”

“You check the listings at the dollar theater, whatever you want to see, I’m in.” He gives Sammy a hug and ruffles his hair. Sammy returns it with a hug of his own, hard and a little desperate. John doesn’t drag him away often, maybe once a year, twice at worst, but ever time, Dean feels like he’s cutting his own arm off and leaving it behind.

Reluctantly, he peels himself away and leaves Sammy in the apartment, probably getting ready to barricade himself into the apartment’s only bathroom for the next twenty four hours. Not that Dean blames him.

“Dean-o.” She reaches out to tap at his nose, but he dodges with the speed of someone who knows it’s coming.

“Bad-touch lady!”

Her left eye twitches, but she doesn’t try to touch him again, so he counts it as a win and hopes Sammy really has locked himself in the bathroom. Not that she’s ever actually done anything inappropriate, but according to Sammy she’ll spend hours stroking his hair or rubbing his shoulders and it makes him uncomfortable. Hence the nick name Dean bates her with. The assembly on abuse in elementary school hadn’t wanted to cover specifics of what a bad-touch was and had left it at ‘any touching that makes you feel uncomfortable.’ For someone like Sammy, who hasn’t been touched by a great many people other then Dean and certainly none at length, just about any prolonged contact is uncomfortable.

The first time Sammy called her bad-touch lady is still one of Dean’s favorite memories. He was six and begging Dean not to leave for the weekend. He was trying everything he could think of and finally told Dean that he didn’t want to be left with the bad-touch lady. Her expression had been somewhere between angry, offended, and confused, which left her looking constipated and ever since then, Dean’s noticed her eye twitches anytime one of them calls her that, which means he does it as often as he can get away with.

Currently, she’s wearing her favorite little druggie, who is apparently back on the wagon. Dean isn’t sure why she always comes in the same person, but he knows she doesn’t stay there. Besides some of her off-handed comments that hint towards other bodies and better times, there’s the fact he’s certain a demon wouldn’t be wearing an ankle length skirt and sweater. She’s a little more filled out then the last time he saw her, healthy almost. Her teeth are white, her skin clear and her hair clean, trimmed, and highlighted in auburn. She looks downright respectable. So, yeah, he’s pretty sure the demon had very little to do with that.

Dean sidesteps her and gets in the car without another word. The sooner they get out, the sooner they get back. John takes a little longer, takes time to practically dry hump her against Dean’s window until Dean finally decides he’s had enough and slams the heel of his hand into the car horn, not letting go until John stops his make out session and slaps the window, glaring.

Fuck him, too. It’s not like Dean signs up for these jobs and if John’s going to force him into doing it, the least he can do is not use his dad’s body to have sex with some former crack whore up against his family car. Not in front of him, anyway.

They’re fifteen minutes out before Dean manages to swallow down the guilt and anxiety of leaving Sammy behind and focus on the task at hand. “So, what’s the job?”

“In the backseat. Hunter outside of Clifton has a stone that can be used to locate certain high ranking demons.”

Dean reaches back and grabs the envelope sitting where Sammy usually is and manages to refrain himself from ‘accidentally’ hitting John upside the head with it. Wouldn’t hurt him, but it’s the little rebellions that keep Dean going. Leaving the file where Sammy should be is John’s way of reminding Dean why he’s doing this and Dean doesn’t need those reminders anymore.

Inside the folder is a picture of a stone, a gem, really, yellow and smoothed out to look like one of those artsy pictures of a rain drop.

“With the right incantation, that little stone could help the hunters do some serious damage. Without it, it’s still a pain in the ass.”

“My ass or yours?” Because it wouldn’t be the first time John sent him into a situation that could get him killed.

“Mine. It goes cold in the presence of any demons, high ranking or otherwise, which is why I need you. You get in, you incapacitate him and I’ll be right behind you.”

“How far?”

“Ten minutes. That should give you more than enough time.”

“Do I get the tranq gun?” He loves the fucking tranquilizer. Makes it quick, makes it easy, with none of the guilt that comes with actually killing someone.

There’s a lengthy pause as John considers it before saying, “Yes, but bring your real one, just in case. Leave the knife.”

Dean makes a face, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t like knives anyway, he just prefers to go in as heavily armed as he can and knives are easier to hide.

John usually saves these jobs for summer months and he gets them as close to the target as he can without getting spotted – usually an hour or two. Green, whoever he is, must not get out much, because John’s put them only thirty minutes out from his house. Dean’s noticed a trend with Hunters, at least the ones John tangles with. They don’t have a lot of money, which Dean gets, because he highly doubts hunting monsters pays well. Much like tracking down demonic artifacts, he figures it pays just about nothing. The money John gets, he takes off the corpses of people he’s killed and while Dean hasn’t sat down and asked any of them, he doesn’t think Hunters do that. It seems to him that if you make it your life’s mission to hunt and kill evil things to save innocent people, you probably draw a line at robbing corpses. He could be wrong, though.

Green lives in a trailer park. John drops him off at the edge with a description of the RV he’s looking for. Dean already doesn’t like it. RV’s are small, even the biggest ones are only a few feet wide and he doesn’t fight well in small spaces. John’s taught him basic hand to hand and self defense, but he’s also taught him that his best weapon is to get space between him and his attacker and always know his exits. RV’s don’t give for much space and there’s only one exit, easily blocked.

Worse, when he finally locates the trailer he’s looking for, it’s even smaller then he was hoping for. It has the space for a small bathroom and a bed and it hooks up to a truck. The two windows he can see are dark and small. He’s skinny enough after his last growth spurt that he might be able to fit through one, but if he has to break it, there’s a good chance he’ll cut himself getting out.

“Shit.” Might as well get it over with. There’s a few other trailers in sight and a mean looking man sitting in a lawn chair outside his camper with a beer and snarl on his face, watching Dean while he whistled some song Dean didn’t recognize. So, luring Green out isn’t an option. John has a very simple, very strict rule regarding getting seen doing what they do. Don’t.

So, he’s going in to do this and he’s going to be as quiet as he can, which means waiting until Green turns his back to draw his gun. Okay, time to man up and do his job.

He takes a few deep breathes and then walks up quickly, slamming his fist hard against the door once, waits a breath and does it again, this time, looking behind his shoulder. It’s been years since he felt the same nervousness as he’s projecting, but he remembers how. He remembers what it was like being ten years old, standing in front of a cabin door in the middle of the night, not knowing what he was walking into or what he was supposed to do or say.

“Who’s there?”

He lowers his voice, trying to affect the same shake he had when he was younger. “I need help. Please?”

The best part of being sixteen is being old enough to knowhow to kill, but young enough to look vulnerable. Eventually, no matter how desperate he looks, people are gonna be weary of him, but at sixteen, they more or less still give him the benefit of the doubt. The proof in that is Green unlocking and opening the door, if only a fraction.

“Who are you?”

“Dean Winchester.” He manages to break his voice on his last name, like he’s about to cry. His finger nails cut into his palms and he focuses on the pain to make his eyes water. He’s no good at shedding actual tears, but the wet shine does the trick. “Please, I just… I need help.”

The door opens a little more and Dean waits, keeping his hands balled into fists, because what he really wants is to grab the tranquilizer out of the back of his jeans and take his shot. Behind Green, he can see the bed taking up the majority of the space and a small table taking up the rest, there’s a folding door to the immediate right blocking off a portion of the trailer for what Dean guesses is a closet sized bathroom.   There’s barely going to be enough room to stand in there, let alone fight. It doesn’t help that he keeps looking at Dean, up and down, like he’s sizing him up and Dean’s just starting to think he isn’t going to let him in when the door opens the rest of the way and Green pulls back as far as he can to let him in.

Dean makes a show of looking behind him, bouncing a little on his feet like he’s thinking about running before giving in and stepping through the door with reluctance. He doesn’t have to fake that, because he’s really reluctant, especially when Green closes the door.

“Um, the, uh… my dad is…” he hesitates, because something feels off. Green doesn’t look nervous or concerned, he looks almost… angry? No, not angry, on guard, waiting. Dean takes a harder look at the man. Six foot one and built like a truck. He’s wearing jeans and a wife beater and… no jewelry. If he was a hunter and he had a magic stone that went cold whenever a demon was around, he sure as hell wouldn’t take it off. He’d sleep in the damn thing, but Green doesn’t have a necklace or a ring or anything on and there’s a slim chance he had it made into a PA, but somehow Green doesn’t strike him as the kind of man to get his cock pierced.

Dean freezes as he realizes Green hasn’t asked about Sammy. They all ask about Sammy. John only takes him when he knows he’ll be recognized. Hunters have an extensive network, but they don’t all know each other and they don’t all have the same facts. Not everyone knows John Winchester, but those that do, know he’s possessed and that he has Dean and Sammy. It’s what makes Dean’s little deception work, except they always, _always_ ask where his brother is and Green didn’t, he still isn’t. Instead, his muscles are tense, his jaw is tenser and Dean is so incredibly fucked. He breaks for the closed door, but a hard shove to his shoulder lands him on the bed. The window’s a few feet away and he scrambles for it. John’s not far behind, he just has to keep him busy until the demon gets there.

His hand hits the latch at the same time fingers wrap around his ankle and yank him away from it and he can’t hold back the cry of, “No!” that slips out, because he doesn’t know what this is, but his mind is racing as he lashes out with one fist and the other tries to get behind him and grab at the tranquilizer tucked into his belt, only to have two hundred pounds of muscle bear down on him, trapping his hand.   He can’t push him off, can’t get his leg up so he can reach the more lethal gun tucked into his boot.

“Get off me!”

A hand comes up over his mouth and nose, but it isn’t just a hand. There’s a cloth in it and he’s already breathed it in before he realizes he shouldn’t. As everything fades out, he’s still waiting for John to come through the door.

 

*****

 

It was a trap. A goddamn trap and he walked right into it. John’s going to leave him. That’s what he always says he’ll do. If Dean fucks up and gets himself arrested, John isn’t going to stay around to bail him out. Sammy is his priority. He doesn’t actually need Dean for anything. Dean’s a convenience – like having a microwave when you’ve already got an oven. Sure, it takes longer, but it can still get the job done just the same. John’s going to leave Dean behind, because he was stupid enough to get himself taken by fucking Hunters, which is worse than getting arrested.

He tugs at the cuffs securing him to the metal bar bolted in half up the shower wall, but it doesn’t give. He woke up ten minutes ago and has spent the majority of that time cursing and trying to get his hands free. The only thing he’s succeeded in so far is rubbing bloody cuts into his wrists and that isn’t helping anything. His jacket and shoes have been taken, his weapons as well. Finally, he sits on the floor, his arms pulled up over his head and tries to think, except the only thing running through his head is how stupid he’s been.

“Hey, kid, you done in there?”

Dean freezes, because the trailer’s been moving this whole time, bouncing along some uneven road somewhere and he’d thought he was alone. As far as he knew, Green didn’t have anyone with him, but then as far as he knew it hadn’t been a trap. He must have had someone else working with him, but… shit, the old codger at the other trailer. He couldn’t remember if the whistling started before they made eye contact or after, but he’d bet anything that was a signal. Green had to know he was coming somehow and there hadn’t been movement in the trailer windows.

He tries to move far enough away from the wall to see over the edge of the shower door, but it’s too far away. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is, really, he recognizes the voice as belonging to Green, but he still wants to see him. He wants to look him in the eye and spit in his face, because it’s his fault that Dean promised Sammy he’d take him to a movie when he got back and isn’t going back now. Even if he gets away from them, he has no idea where John plans on heading next.

It takes him a few deep breathes to tamp down on the building panic. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know where they’re going, he’ll find them. He has to. First, though, he has to get out of the bathroom.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m done.” Not that he’s sure what he’s supposed to be done with, but he isn’t getting out of the cuffs on his own anytime soon and he can’t convince Green to unlock them if he can’t talk to him.

The accordion doors pushed back and Green leans half into the little room. “You don’t look so good.”

“Well, I’ve been kidnapped and handcuffed in a bathroom that hasn’t been cleaned this century, so I’d say not good is an understatement.” Green chuckles and angry heat builds in Dean’s chest. Asshole is just out of reach of his legs and he could do some serious damage with his feet, not as much as if he had his boots on, but enough to make him feel better. Before he can stop himself, he says, “I dare you to get closer.”

Green’s smile drops off, but he doesn’t look angry, more… concerned and that almost scares Dean. If he wants to convince them to let him go, he has to know what they want from him, but so far he’s come up with revenge. He’s had a hand in killing a fair number of Hunters and a few other people when John needed information. It’s always been a possibility that they’d come after him eventually, he just figured John would be there to have his back – at the very least, he thought they’d go after the demon first. If it’s revenge they want, concern doesn’t make sense, but then what? Bait, maybe?

“What do you want from me?”

After a brief pause, Green crouches on the floor, brings himself eye level with Dean. “We know about your father.”

“You and half the other hunters in this hemisphere and if you know what he is, you know he won’t come for me. You can’t use me to bait him out.”

“You may be right about that, but that’s not why we took you.”

“Then why?!” It doesn’t make sense. The trap was elaborate in that they had to convince the demon they had what it was looking for. Not only that, but that it needed to send Dean in first. That took a lot of time and effort and… for what?

“We’re taking you somewhere he can’t find you, Dean. He’s not getting his hands on you again.”

Wait, this was… “You think you’re _saving_ me?!”

Green doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to and Dean falls back against the cheap plastic vinyl shower enclosure. “Why… if you’re saving me, why the hell am I handcuffed to a shower?”

“Long term captivity is a hell of a thing.”

“I wasn’t a fucking captive. I could leave anytime I wanted.”

“What about Sammy? He free to go, too?”

It isn’t like that, not like what Green’s insinuating. Sammy isn’t locked up in chains somewhere, but the point is still there. Dean can leave and John might not follow after him, but if he takes Sammy there will be hell to pay. Literally.

Green sighs, like he has half a fucking clue what he’s talking about. “Demons are tricky that way, kid. They get up under your skin, find your weaknesses and exploit them. I’m sorry about your dad, I never met him, but I heard he was a good man.”

He starts to stand up and it hits Dean that he’s serious. This isn’t about anything other then getting him away from John and not letting him go back. “No, wait, you can’t! My brother…”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s next on our list.”

Dean’s throat closes around the words there and he closes his eyes. There’s a finality to Green’s words and he’s closing the doors. Not that he won’t hear Dean if he decides he wants to talk, but he doesn’t think it’ll do any good. Instead, he pulls his legs up to himself and closes his eyes. He has to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halloween, Thanksgiving, birthday, Christmas, birthday, birthday, birthday. I'm down to Easter and my anniversary, which generally has no real effort put into it, because we're both too exhausted to do more then throw steaks on the grill and give each other a high five for making it through the eight month holiday season with the majority of our sanity in tact. Comments and kudos are needed, because I'm shameless.

“Where are we going?”

Green’s sitting on the floor of the shower, Dean kicked him the first time he got within range, jammed his heel into the muscled thigh. It’s going to bruise, but it didn’t take him down and then Green held up a bag of food and Dean decided petty revenge could wait until he had a full stomach. It’s awkward, because he won’t take off the cuffs, not even one, and insists on feeding him by hand, but food is food and he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. He can’t get away if he doesn’t have the energy to run.

Green shoves another fry in his mouth roughly, like he’s shutting him up, but answers. “No where. We’re driving in circles the next few days, making sure we’re not being tailed.”

Dean swallows, trying to push down the nausea that always comes with talking about John. “He’s not. He told me if I fucked up, he wouldn’t come to get me. I think this qualified.”

“Funny thing about demons.” Green holds out the last bite of burger and Dean takes it. “They don’t love, not like you or me, but they can form attachments to things.”

Dean isn’t sure, but he thinks he sees where this is going and he isn’t entirely sure how he feels about being referred to as a thing.

“I say attachments, it’s more like an obsession and they don’t give them up easily.”

“It’s not obsessed with me.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But Bill seems to think otherwise.”

“Bill?” Dean’s stomach sinks as he tries to think of another Bill, but only one comes to mind and it can’t be him. That Bill was left to the mercy of Black Dogs and since that night, Dean’s actually seen a Black Dog and he isn’t sure how anyone could walk away from that, let alone a man with one knee cap blown to hell.

“Bill Harvelle. You remember him.” It isn’t a question, because Dean knows the sick feeling is showing in his face. John said if Hunters ever touched them, he’d kill Bill’s family, his wife and daughter, and Green was saying Bill was passing them information, despite that threat. Dean can’t decide which is worse, that Bill might actually believe John won’t do it, or that he knows he will and is doing it anyway.

“The demon said…”

“I know, and don’t you worry about that. That wife of his is more of a spite fire then Bill himself. They’ll be just fine.”

He gets up and takes the empty bags with him into the main camper, leaving Dean to his thoughts.

 

 

*****

 

 

John’s always saying Dean has the disadvantage when it comes to a fair fight against just about anyone other then his own piers. He says that’ll change as he gets older, but right now, Dean can’t act irrationally. He has to think, which is why he knows his first escape attempt is a stupid idea, but he’s had five hours – and he knows how long it’s been because Green has a watch on that he doesn’t bother hiding – since they took him from Sammy. It’s dark like it only ever is in the middle of nowhere and even if he does get out, he doesn’t know which way the nearest town is or even what state they’re in, but he can’t not try.

It’s a small bathroom and the toilet isn’t far, but he doesn’t have any hands free. He’s all but asleep when the urge to pee gets bad enough that he can’t hold it anymore. “Green!”

The man grunts in the other room, probably mostly asleep as well. Whatever else they are, they’re cautious enough with Dean that they haven’t left him alone. His partner drives while he sits with Dean. They’ve stopped once so far and Green had stood in the doorway, a gun hanging from his hand in a lazy threat and Dean’s desperate, but he wasn’t that desperate yet. He’s getting there, though. Every minute that passes puts him further away from Sammy. Hell, it puts him further away from John and the son of a bitch may be a demon infesting his father’s body, but at least he doesn’t keep Dean handcuffed in a bathroom for hours on end.

“Green!”

The grunt is louder this time, accompanied by movement and then Green’s there, taking up the entire doorway with sleep bleary eyes and a scowls. “What?”

“I have to piss.”

He doesn’t hesitate, which means they’ve planned for this and that should make Dean think twice, but it doesn’t. He pulls a walkie talkie out of his back pocket and thumbs it on. “Eddie, pull over. Kid’s gotta pee.”

The truck lurches to a mostly smooth stop and he hears a car door open and shut, then the trailer door opens a minute later and Dean can’t see who comes in, but he can hear them. Green looks back and his partners says, “Go ahead.”

Dean’s not happy that they apparently think there needs to be two of them in the room if they’re going to uncuff him, but on the other hand, it’s more then a little flattering. He knows that even though he’s going to try, the odds of him getting past the Hulk are slim, but they must think otherwise.

Green uncuffs him and Dean doesn’t make his move, because he really does have to piss and if this ends the way he thinks it will, he’s going to be attached to that pipe again, so he’d like to go ahead and empty his bladder first. So, he sits quietly and rubs his wrists under the freshly formed scabs, glaring openly.

Without a word, because it really isn’t necessary, Green gets up and walks out, closing the door behind him. Dean waits a minute longer, his shoulders aching stiffly, then pushes to his feet. His legs are weak, but at least they don’t hurt. He just needs to move a little and he’ll be good.   Unfortunately, there isn’t a lot of room for moving in the bathroom.

As quietly as he can, he checks out the window. John occasionally rents RV’s and trailers instead of outright apartments. Dean hates them because it’s less privacy than even the one bedroom, paper thin walled shitholes they usually stay in, but at least he doesn’t have to waste his time trying to open the window, because he knows the latching mechanism. It’ll open just wide enough to let the air out, two inches at most and it’s made of thick plastic. To get out that way, he’s gonna need to kick the damn thing out – which is impossible as it’s set at head level – or he’ll have to find a hammer.

Reluctantly, he steps away and does what he has to, leaning against the wall a little, because the relief is knee weakening. He takes his time washing his hands and then faces the door, bracing himself against the sink. It’s a stupid idea. Trying to barrel his way past even one man, let alone two, is paramount to a suicide mission in that they’re going to be more on guard when he tries it, but fuck it. He can’t just sit there waiting for a better idea to come to him.   He’s been doing that for five fucking hours and it’s gotten him nowhere.

With both of them in there, they’ll be taking up pretty much all the space, but if he can do it, if he can get out the door, he’s pretty sure he has half a chance . He’s a fast runner and with any luck they’re somewhere with trees that he can get lost in.

Tensing up, he clenches both hands around the lip of the sink and calls, “Done!”

He isn’t sure who’s going to open the door, but then it doesn’t really matter. The accordion door slides to the side, folding in on itself and Dean meets Green’s eyes for a split second before he pulls his leg back and kicks out, catching the bigger man in the solar plexus. His foot is bare, so it isn’t going to do the same kind of damage he’d like it too, but it does drive Green back into the room, wind knocked out of him.

One down, more or less, one to go. Dean hasn’t even put his food on the ground to take the first step, hasn’t even looked at the other person in the room now that Green’s doubled half over, one arm around his midsection as he tries to suck in air, when he registers a soft popping sound and pain shoots up his leg. His standing leg, no less, and if it wasn’t for the grip he still has on the sink, he’d be on the ground right now.

His eyes immediately fly to the source of the pain, because he can’t run if he can’t walk and there’s numbness spreading, even as he eyes the red tipped dart sticking out of his thigh through his jeans.

“Son of a…” his legs buckle and he drops to his hands and knees. That’s his fucking dart and now that he raises his eyes to look up, that’s _his_ gun the other guy’s holding. His tranquilizer and that pissed him off even more than his failed attempt at escape, because he expected that to go south. He’d hoped, he’d had to at least try, but he’d known better. That was _his_ gun, though.

He slides the rest of the way to the floor as his arms give out and black creeps in around the edges of his already faded vision.

 

 

*****

 

 

There’s no way to tell how long he’s been out, not right away. He knows what John packed in the darts, but he also knows it was calibrated to take down Green and he’s a lot smaller then Green. Thankfully, there wasn’t enough to do anything permanent, like kill him, but it’s left him feeling sick and disoriented. Now that he’s awake he’s almost certain it was longer than the four hours John had planned. For one, there’s morning light coming in from the window over his head, for another, he has to piss again.

The second isn’t as much of a problem, because they traded the shorter cuff that had been looped through the bar, securing both his wrists above his head, for a slightly longer chain secured to the bar on one end and only one of his wrists on the other, leaving him a hand free and just enough length that if he stretches his arm out, he can use the toilet. It’s not the most comfortable thing he’s ever had to do, but seeing as the alternative is pissing himself, he manages.

From his new vantage point, he can see Green sitting at the small table, a book open in front of him. It looks like one of those old ones John collects sometimes. There’s a while where they don’t say anything, Green doesn’t even look at him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know he’s there.

Finally, Green sighs. He doesn’t close the book, doesn’t even look away from it, but he sighs. “Feeling okay?”

“Fuck you.”

It earns him a look and that isn’t the amused smiles he gets from John when he spits back curse words instead of answers to rhetorical questions. It’s full of disapproval and Dean isn’t sure what to do with that. Of course he isn’t okay. Okay is back in the shit motel room with Sammy watching whatever crap movie the kid’s decided to force on him this time.

If he stretches out with both arms, he could maybe pinch the asshole’s leg, but somehow he doubts that would be very satisfying.

Green’s walkie-talkie is on the table next to him, along with a plastic bag that the man picks up and tosses next to him. “Bet your hungry.”

He pulls the bag to him. It’s stuffed with a water bottle, beef jerky and some chips. Not the breakfast of champions, but it’ll do. Green watches him tear into the jerky, waiting until he’s busy chewing to talk. “Sorry about the drugs, kid.”

Dean shrugs, “You could have taken me down without it.” Not that it means anything.

“We’re gettin’ that.” The walkie-talkie crackles, but when nothing follows, Green continues. “Best we can tell that thing’s been looking after you for at least five years, probably more. So, what is it you do for it?”

“Besides being bait?”

“Besides that.”

Dean rips another piece of jerky off, thinking about his answer while he chews. It’s complicated. He’s not really sure how to put it into words or how much he should share.

“I take care of Sammy.” It’s near enough to the truth, if not all of it. He’s killed on John’s say, but he does it because that’s what he has to do to stay with Sammy. As long as he’s useful, as long as he’s entertaining, John has a reason to keep him around.

“That’s all?”

“What do you want me to say?” He opens the bag of chips a little too forcefully, ripping the bag and spilling half of them. “I do what he tells me to and I do it well and I get to take care of my brother.”

Green doesn’t respond, just keeps staring at him, assessing him. It pisses Dean off, because what the hell is there to assess, anyway? Green said it earlier and Dean can deny it till he’s blue – _will_ deny it if anyone asks – but he’s a captive as much as if there were chains on him. Not because Sammy’s locked in some closet or something, but because John has to come after Sammy. Sammy’s his job and unless Dean can be sure there’s no way for the demon to find them, he can’t risk it.

For a blissful few minutes, he thinks Green’s dropped it, but he hasn’t. “You’ve killed for it.”

Dean shrugs around a mouthful of Fritos.   There’s no point denying it, he almost doesn’t want to.

“If you could get away with Sammy, would you come willingly?” That freezes him and he thinks about it. Really thinks about it. “Dean?”

“Does it matter?”

Because Sammy isn’t there and even if he told them where Sammy had been the last time he’d seen him, there’s no guarantee he’s still there. Even if he was, Dean isn’t sure what it would take to keep John from finding them. He’s hinted at precautions but Dean can’t be sure, maybe he did something to them when they were asleep. A spell or it could be something in the blood. John’s in their father’s body, maybe there’s blood magic for that.

The walkie lights up with an abrupt, “We’re pulling over. Kyle says we’ve gotta have words.”

Green curses under his breath and sits up straighter, pressing his thumb down as he responds, “Yeah, okay.”

The trailer comes to a bumpy stop and Green gets up, standing close enough that if Dean wants, he can strike out and maybe do some superficial damage. He doesn’t and Green crouches down as he speaks, “I’m going to close this door and you are going to leave it closed.”

Dean opens his mouth to say something smart ass, probably ‘make me,’ because fuck him and his orders. He doesn’t get to boss Dean around and tell him what to do. If Dean wants to face the people responsible for taking him away from Sammy, he’s gonna face them, but Green cuts him off.

“No, you listen, because not everyone agrees with Bill. There are a lot of Hunters out there that see you as… unsalvageable.” _The fuck?!_ “They think you’ve been with one of them so long, you’re as bad as it is, and it doesn’t help that we know you’ve killed for it. Not everyone believes he’s forcing you, because, Dean, in some of the footage we’ve got, you look almost like you’re enjoying yourself.”

He’s not wrong. Sometimes… sometimes everything is spinning in so many different directions it feels good to pull the trigger. He almost certain John knows that and those are the times he tells him to, when he knows Dean needs it. It isn’t bunnies anymore, though, it’s people. If it were up to Dean, no, he wouldn’t, but it isn’t his call. John points and Dean shoots. Then he goes back and makes hamburger helper for Sammy and that’s the way it is and if he enjoys it sometimes, just a little…

“I was military once upon a time and I worked with prisoners of war and that’s why I’m back here and they’re up there. Bill is a friend and when he got a line on how to get hold of you, he asked me personally to see to it and that’s what I’m doing. I can’t leave you alone just yet, because I’m not entirely sure what you’re capable of, but when those men come in, you stay back here, behind this door. You have any questions, I’ll answer them later.”

There’s a heavy handed knock and Green closes the divider and Dean sits behind it, listening.

The second the door opens, he hears, “Bill was right, it’s tailing us.”

“How far?”

“Les says it picked up our trail in Oregon.”

They hadn’t been far from Oregon when they tried to ambush Green, which means John isn’t that far at all. It means John maybe stopped long enough to move Sammy, or order someone else to move Sammy before going to get Dean and that’s… he can’t explain it, because it’s a demon coming for him. John might well be pissed he got himself taken, and that should scare him, but it just makes him relieved. He doesn’t have to go looking for them. He doesn’t have to worry about hunting an invisible trail to find Sammy, because John’s going to come get him and take him to his brother.

“That’s good. We can work with that.”

“How exactly are we gonna work with that? That gives us less then four hours head start. That ain’t near enough.”

The new voices all sound nervous and they should be.

It’s Green who speaks next, easy and reassuring. “It is. We’ve got a contact in Natesville we can drop him with. We go on ahead and draw it away. He’ll make sure the kid gets to Bill.”

“Hell, Green, I don’t want to draw it away. You know what happens to people it catches up with and I don’t know about you, but I like my intestines on the inside.”

“Then you shouldn’t have signed up for this. You knew the risks.”

Dean chuckles silently at that, because, yeah, John has a thing for gutting people that piss him off. He likes to slice them open and watch their desperation as parts of them leak out. It never lasts long. They lose consciousness from blood loss alone pretty quick, so he always saves it for last, but it does make an impression. Dean knows the line and he sure as hell isn’t planning on pissing John off anytime soon. Not on purpose, anyway.

“Why don’t we strike first? If Bill’s right and he’s obsessed with the kid, why don’t we use that?”

Dean’s chest tightens painfully in the pause that follows. It’s Green who finally breaks the silence, “How do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s been using the kid to pick us off for years now. I think it’s about time we return the favor.”

“No.” Dean takes back everything bad he’s thought about Green in the last… okay, he isn’t sure how long, but he is sure he’s thought some pretty unpleasant things about the man in that time. He may play bait for John, but he doesn’t have a choice in that. He has a choice in this. They don’t have anything on him and like hell he’s gonna roll over and let them use him.

“That is not what Bill sent us here to do. Our first priority is…”

“Green, no offense – we all respect Bill – but he isn’t here. It’s our lives on the line, not his. If we can use the kid, we should.”

“I said no.”

“Green…”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, I trust you, I do, but what we signed up for was getting the kid clear and taking that thing down, then going back for the brother. Four hours ain’t enough. If it even suspects we’ve dumped the kid, by the time we realize it isn’t following us, it’ll be too late. We’re using him as bait.”

“You use him and you’re no better then that thing.”

“It’s done. You’re either with us or you walk away. Which is it?”

“Shit, fine, but he’s still my responsibility.”

No one argues that and Dean leans back against the sink and fumes as he listens to them hash out a rough plan. He can’t let them do this. Not that it’ll work, but that’s beside the point. The fact they want to try pisses him off, the fact they intend to use Dean to accomplish it, pisses him off more. While they’re deep in it, too caught up in negotiating the how’s and where’s of their trap, Dean’s making his own plan.

 

 

*****

 

 

Okay, so it isn’t much of a plan and it boils down to ‘fuck up their plans,’ but it’s all he’s got. There are two ways to do that from what he’s hearing. He can somehow manage to slip the shackles and escape before they get there – which really isn’t likely and the first thing he’s doing when he gets out of this is learn how to pick a lock – or he can bide his time until he gets there and find some way to strike at them in a way that will let John do his demonic thing.

So, yeah, not a plan, per say, Dean’s never been the one to make plans anyway, that’s always John, but he’s not going on nothing.

When the men finally leave thirty minutes later, he’s heard enough to know they don’t have much of a plan either. There’s an abandoned warehouse in Salt Lake they intend to lure him to. Then they’ll keep him at bay with holy water, salt and Dean while they perform the exorcism. Dean sees it as all kinds of flawed, even without his inside information, but he isn’t in the sharing mood and, besides, they don’t exactly ask him. Not even Green brings it up when he opens the door after the trailer starts moving again.

Green takes his place back at the table and Dean notes the tension in the man’s shoulders, the heavy frown dragging his eyebrows together. Whatever else he’s done, he really is against using Dean to get to John, for whatever that’s worth. Then he thinks about Sammy sitting in some hotel or maybe even bad-touch lady’s house in the middle of crack-town Nevada, waiting for Dean to come back from a mission that was only supposed to be over night. It’s not worth much.

They don’t talk for two hours. Green goes back to his book and Dean goes back to thinking about all the things he can do to fuck this over for them. They stop for gas once and Dean considers yelling for help. He’d do it if he thought it would change anything, but Green’s got the tranquilizer out and aimed steadily at him and Dean doesn’t want to go under. Just the idea of shouting for help and going down, not knowing if he’ll wake up in a hospital bed or a warehouse makes his chest tighten in panic, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Light was already filtering in when Dean woke up earlier and he’s seen Green’s watch finally, so he knows its nine thirty. Unless John’s told him otherwise, Sammy won’t realize something is wrong until closer to noon. Dean tries to envision John talking to Sammy and, no, he wouldn’t have told him anything. Chances are, Sammy didn’t even ask, because he knows John well enough to know he won’t get answers. So, he doesn’t know yet, but he’ll figure it out and experience says the demonic bitch isn’t going to tell him either.

Dean closes his eyes, sighing and Green looks up from his book. “You okay over there?”

“Thinking about Sammy.” Because why the hell not. It isn’t like Green can’t guess and the quiet is suffocating.

“Yeah?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. John doesn’t like him very much.”

“John?”

“Demon.” Dean shifts, cringing at the sharp pain of sitting in one position for too long. “I can’t… After the first few years, it was hard to…”

He can’t quite explain it, but Green grunts his confirmation. Dean isn’t sure if he really understands or not, but kind of appreciates that he gives him the out. Appreciates it even more when he redirects, “So, it doesn’t like Sammy?”

It’s strange having someone refer to John as ‘it.’ He vaguely remembers a time when he made that distinction. Gave that up, too. Actually, he’s given a lot up, but the one thing he won’t give up is Sammy, that and maybe the idea that he can get his dad back eventually, which is why he won’t let them do this, even if the idea of having it over and done with is tempting and it is.

“I don’t know, it doesn’t hate him, I guess. It just doesn’t like kids.”

“It liked you well enough.”

“Maybe.” He opens his eyes and meets Green’s assessing gaze. “Maybe it was just easier to keep me around and I’ve proven myself useful since then. Maybe he’s a demon and I don’t know what the hell he’s thinking, but I know he’s not there half the time. I know he doesn’t talk to Sammy, barely looks at him, certainly doesn’t make him food or tell him where we’re going or why. He won’t even tell him that I’m missing. He’ll walk out the door and if he comes back without me, he won’t tell Sammy what happened or where I am.”

Dean rubs at the betraying wetness in the corners of his eyes. He’s not even sure John will bother to tell Sammy whether he’s alive or dead. He might not say anything at all. He’ll probably just pick up and start moving, ignoring Sammy until he stops asking. Except he’s not really sure Sammy will stop asking and if John got annoyed enough, would he hurt Sammy?

It’s not like violence has never been on the table, it’s just that Dean’s always been there to mitigate it. He puts himself between Sammy and any possible danger, even John, and the few times John’s lashed out, it’s been at Dean. This time Dean won’t be there and if Sammy does something to piss John off, Dean won’t be there to step in and he won’t be able to tell Sammy to just shut up for a little while. John’s said it before, his assignment isn’t to keep Sammy happy, it’s to keep him alive.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to stem threatening tears, because he’s not going to cry. Not now and certainly not in front of some stranger. The last time he cried was the first time John took Sammy away, back when he’d first said no. There had been a few close calls, some wet cheeks after nightmares, but he can’t control those. Crying feels like giving up. It feels like admitting defeat and he doesn’t do that. He can’t. Instead, he focuses on Green’s promise from hours ago – to answer any questions he has and he does have questions.

“How do you know it’ll work?” Green looks over from his book and Dean looks back, knowing his eyes are pink and still a little wet, but determined to keep his voice steady. “The exorcism. How do you know it’ll work?”

After a moment, Green takes his book and moves to sit in front of Dean, holding it out. There’s a picture taking up one entire page and Latin written out in script on the other. “Do you know what that is?”

Dean shakes his head. He knows a fair amount of Latin, not enough to be fluent, but enough to get by. John taught him some, because there have been a few times it’s been useful, and Dean taught himself some more, because he’s figured he might find something in the stacks of books Hunters always carry with them. That’s how Dean knows an exorcism won’t work. He’d tried it and failed to the tune of John laughing at him. Turns out demons could mark a host to prevent exorcism.

This isn’t an exorcism, though. The picture itself is intricate and detailed and some of the characters remind Dean of the ones on his knife. None of the books he’s flipped through have ever had anything like that. He wants to grab the book and look for more references to what it means, but for now, he looks at the Latin on the opposite page.

“Devil’s Trap?”

Green nods, “Singer’s been looking for ways to get that thing out of your dad since we confirmed the rumors. There’s exorcism, of course, but to exorcize it, you have to get it to stay in one place long enough to finish the ritual. If we can lure the demon into one of these, it’s trapped. It can’t get out, can’t use its power.”

Dean stares at it, wishing somehow this was the answer. He wants it to be this easy and he wants to hope maybe they could do it, but then he’s hoping for his dad’s death. “What about my dad? What happens to him?”

“We hope the body isn’t too badly damaged, but, Dean, you can’t honestly think your dad would rather live than have you under that thing’s thumb?”

Honestly, he doesn’t know what his dad would want. He knows his dad loves him and Sammy. He knows he loved Dean’s mom enough to find out what really happened to her and he knows he wanted revenge. Beyond that the memories get fuzzy.

He doesn’t want to say that, though, because Green has this look like he’s said something important, something Dean should understand and he gets that. Green thinks all Dean’s dad would want is for him and Sammy to be safe, but sometimes it’s not about what his dad wants, it’s about what Dean needs and he needs his dad back. He needs the last eleven years to have been for something. So, he redirects and is grateful when Green drops it.

“Who’s Singer?”

“Bobby Singer. Friend of your dad’s. He met him back when John first started looking into your mom’s death.”

“Bobby. I think I met him. Maybe.” It’s a faded memory of a bearded man in grease stained clothes with a voice he can’t quite remember, but it’s there. “He works with cars?”

Green smiles, “Yeah, that’d be him. Cantankerous son of a bitch, but he’s got the best library of demonic tomes this side of the country. For someone who was only in the game for about a year, your dad made some good friends.”

Dean isn’t sure that’s true, but he’ll take Green’s word for it. “So, you’re going to use me to lure him into the trap and then exorcise… it.”

“That’s the plan.”

“What if the exorcism doesn’t work?”

“It will. We’ve used it before. The Devil’s Trap, that’s our wild card. Demons are few and far between so we haven’t exactly been able to do a test run.” He reaches back and sets the book on the table, then turns his focus back on Dean, his smile replaced with a serious frown. “Dean, if this works, it becomes my personal mission to get your brother back. You have my word on that.”

“I don’t know you.”

“True, but you will. Or you will if this doesn’t get us all killed and to tell you to truth, kid, I’m not all that sure it won’t.” He claps Dean’s knee and sits back on the table. There’s a brief pause before he grabs the walkie, “Hey, we could use some breakfast back here and coffee.”

“I’ll get Kyle on it.”

Twenty minutes later they’re eating breakfast tacos and Dean’s thinking about what Green said. He still doesn’t think their plan will work, in fact, he knows it won’t, but he’s starting to wish it would.


	6. Chapter 6

The warehouse is roughly the size of an indoor soccer field. They drive the trailer right inside and for the first time, Dean really gets a look at their set up. There’s Green, who’s been with Dean the whole time, Eddie is the old man from the trailer park, but with a shaved face and clean clothes he doesn’t look so old. There’s a car that pulls in an hour later with a younger man he identifies as Kyle – twenty-something with dark skin and a jittery nervousness that’ll get him killed real soon.

He immediately supplies the information that Les is trailing the demon at an hour out. So, they’ve got at least one more with them, following behind. That’s four men against one potentially pissed off demon. Dean could almost laugh, he’s sure they think those are good odds, but they aren’t.

They’ve handcuffed his hands in front of him. He sits with Green in the middle of the room while the others work on a devil’s trap. It’s big with its edge right at the door. If John steps one foot in the warehouse, he’ll be caught in it and that’s not a bad move on their part, because John likes to make an entrance. He likes eye contact when he approaches people he’s going to kill and he doesn’t often look away, not unless he has a reason to and these Hunters are going to make sure he doesn’t.

That’s what Dean’s for. Give John a goal, something to walk towards. Dean eyes the cloth hanging out of the back of Green’s pocket. It’s either more drugs or a gag and Dean thinks maybe he’s a little fucked up for hoping it’s a gag, but he hates being helpless.

He digs his nails into his legs to keep the urge to run at bay. Even knowing he won’t get far doesn’t make it easier. He might be trapped with the demon, but at least it’s a long leash and he isn’t alone in it and he can’t explain it, but it’s John.

“Hey, kid.” He’s not going to look up, but Green isn’t waiting for it, anyway. “How you holding up?”

He gives a huff of a laugh, but doesn’t bother with words.

“Right.”

He doesn’t owe these men anything, least of all Green. If they’d asked, he would have told them to leave him alone. He’d been fine right where he was. He doesn’t owe them for sticking their noses where they aren’t wanted, but he kind of feels like he maybe owes Bill. Not in that way, but it was his fault John got pissed enough to take it out on the nearest Hunters. He’s fully aware that John most likely already knew they were there. He’s been with John long enough to know the demon has a watchful eye on anything supernatural in their immediate area that might attract Hunters and if they do show, he knows that, too, but he doesn’t always go after them. In fact, usually, he doesn’t. It would draw too much attention. There’s something to be said for the fact that Bill was one of the few actively looking for them, but Dean still thinks John would have left it alone.

So, he’s pretty sure that the only reason the demon went after Bill was to make a point to Dean. People are trying to help them and that’s a bad thing. Dean didn’t agree with him, not then. He’d gone along with staying away from Hunters because he didn’t want to die and leave Sammy alone. He agrees now, though. Chained and tethered in a bathroom, cuffed and dangled for bait; at least John gives him the illusion of a choice. Between leaving Sammy alone or killing, he’ll always kill and John knows this. He uses it, but that’s as much Dean’s fault as it is John’s.

He doesn’t owe these Hunters, but he kind of owes Bill. Looking up at Green through short bangs, Dean tries to figure out how to put this into words that won’t give anything away. They’re screwed now, whether they know it or not, but he doesn’t want to screw Bill over.

“Green?” The man nods. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Dean since they got there. He’s tensed and ready in case Dean tries something. “Don’t tell him about Bill.”

“What do you mean?”

“When this goes south, don’t tell him about Bill. He… he makes threats he doesn’t keep, if it’s not worth the effort, you know. If he really thinks Bill’s dead, he probably won’t go after his family. It’s too much effort for something no one will know is connected with him or it’ll get the wrong kind of attention. Bill and his family are well known, yeah? More then my dad?”

Green nods slowly.

“Then he really won’t, because he doesn’t want other Hunters looking for revenge, but only if he thinks Bill is dead and this has nothing to do with him. If he thinks… If you tell him that Bill sent you, he will hunt him down and he will kill him and his family and he’ll make it bloody and he’ll… I’ll have to…”

He’ll have to watch, at least. John wouldn’t waste that lesson. He might even try and get Dean to participate and he won’t want to, but he’s going to. He’s going to do anything he has to for John to take him back to Sammy, because that’s Dean’s job and he’s good at his job.

Green watches him with an assessing gaze for several minute before he answers. “It’s going to work, Dean.”

“If it doesn’t?”

“Then you have my permission to make sure I don’t talk.”

It’s said like he’s placating him, but Dean is going to go ahead and take that for what it is. Permission.

 

 

*****

 

 

The whole thing takes five minutes top to bottom and goes exactly like Dean had known it would. They’re cocky and self assured that they’re doing the right thing and have him outnumbered, they’ve got a new trick, so they think it’s in the bag.

 

The hardest part is waiting. An entire hour sitting on a broken concrete floor with nothing to do but watch the Hunters go over their plan and talk about meaningless shit. They trade tips on the various monsters they’d been hunting before they banded together for this.

Kyle grew up on a farm down south. His parents were Hunters and, well, hunters. They died a few years ago and since then he’s worked alone or with family. Most of the time, he keeps his hunts on familiar ground, which means forest gigs. Not many demons in that, but Green’s partner at the trailer park is an uncle of a cousin or something, so he offered to help.

Eddie’s been in the game twenty years and is getting too old for this shit. The others laugh and clap him on the back and encourage him to tell them about some of his life experiences. Mostly, they’re just trying to waste time and take the edge off the fact that they’re sitting around waiting for a demon to walk in the door.

Green stays with Dean, watching them from the distance and says nothing.

Les shows up after forty or so minutes, saying he ditched it somewhere just before the border and they probably have thirty minutes, maybe less. They do a quick weapons check, making sure all their knives are sharp, guns loaded and run through the exorcism a few times, so they all know they have it down.

While they focus on each other, Dean notes every weapon they have and where they put it. They each have a gun at their back as well as one in their hand, flasks of holy water and salt, useless knives tucked into their boots, and Les has a pair of Brass Knuckles made of iron. Most of what they have is superficial protection, because they know it won’t actually kill the demon, won’t even make him pause. They’re counting on that trap of theirs. That’s their ace in the hole.

The distant roar of an engine cuts through the hushed voices around the room and Dean tenses, despite his resolve to play along as Green takes the rag out. The way he holds it, it’s definitely a gag, but Dean can’t bring himself to relax, even if he doesn’t actively fight the pull of cloth between his teeth. It’s uncomfortable and restrictive and he doesn’t like the idea that he won’t be able to talk.

Green takes him by his arm and pulls him just inside the edge of the trap, close enough that Dean will be the first thing John sees when he opens the doors. The others take up points around the room, several feet away, hidden in the deep shadows of the room.

When the doors finally open and Dean sees John, he can’t decide if he’s relieved or terrified. He looks calm, which means he’s pissed. Like nuclear fucking pissed and his entire focus is on Dean, who can’t stop himself from yanking back a little in Green’s grip, more to put the Hunter between him and the demon then to get away. His words, though, aren’t directed at Dean. “Green, you took something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Dean manages a muffled, “Fuck you,” through the gag, because scared or not, he isn’t a fucking possession.

John’s face lifts into an amused smile. “That’s my boy.”

Green doesn’t refute it, but he does cock his gun and John’s attention finally shifts to the Hunter. Dean tries to ignore the wash of relief, because for a second there, he’d thought John was pissed at him. He probably is, a little. Dean’s the one stupid enough to let Green get the drop on him, but for a second, he’d thought John was really mad, not just a little annoyed at having to come fetch him, and Dean’s seen what John does to people who piss him off. Dean works really hard not to be one of those people.

However, Green doesn’t have the same dilemma. He wants John pissed. He wants him pissed enough to take that one step that’ll land him in the trap. “You want him, you come and get him.”

It’s a clear challenge and John takes it. Dean doesn’t expect him to do otherwise. To John, Hunters aren’t a threat. They’re an annoyance and a good source of information, but that’s it. He stops after that first step and looks down at the same time Green takes Dean a step back and out of the trap.

When John looks up, his eyes are black, but his mouth is still twisted. “Not bad. I thought we’d destroyed all records of this. Where did you find it?”

“You missed one.”

John shrugged, not bothering to bleed the black out and Dean isn’t sure whether that’s better or worse. He hates the black eyes on his dad’s face, but it’s a reminder that John is strong enough to take them all on.

The demon widens its stance, like it’s getting comfortable, thrusting hands in the pockets of its leather jacket and looking to where the Hunters are shadowed before focusing back on Green. “Well, boys, let’s get this over with.”

Dean recognizes Kyle’s voice, hesitant and unsure, but reciting the exorcism loud enough for it to bounce off the walls and echo. John’s head twitches, but he doesn’t actually flinch. If Dean believes him, it isn’t comfortable when someone tries to pry him out of his body, but it doesn’t incapacitate him. Like being stung by a bee over and over. Sure, it hurts a little, but compared to all the tortures of hell, it’s not bad – it certainly isn’t going to kill him or, in John’s case, rip him out of his host and throw him back in the pit.

It takes the kid performing the exorcism a few lines to realize something’s wrong, but to his credit, he doesn’t stop, he keeps going with a glance at his second uncle twice removed, or whatever their relation is. Didn’t help, none of them knew what to make of John standing there, staring Green down with nothing more then a facial tick and black eyes.

“Binding link.” He slowly takes a hand out and pats his hip meaningfully.   “Can’t force me out, Green. Exorcism won’t work.”

The muscles around his eyes move like he’s shifting his gaze and Dean gets the distinct impression it’s looking at him, even if the pitch black makes it impossible to tell. “Did you even bother to ask, or did he actually refuse to tell you anything?”

Dean can’t help the helpless shudder that crawls up his spine, because it sounds so pleased. Like he’s done something good and Dean wants to think he has, except how he knows he’s gotten four men killed by keeping his mouth shut. It’s their fault, though, for taking him from Sammy in the first place, but he can’t think about that right now. Green’s focused on John and his grip is that much slacker for it. Just a little more.

Kyle’s stopped chanting, because it’s clearly not working. The others are all looking at each other wordlessly, not sure what they should do, but John isn’t taking his eyes away from Dean and the man holding him. “So, what now, boys? You can’t torture me. Can’t force me out. I know, how about you torture Dean there? See what I do.”

From his periphery, he sees Green looking at him, but he’s too busy glaring at John, who apparently hasn’t finished yet. “I came all this way to get him, I must care, right? And I bet there are all sorts of things you could do to him. Pretty little boy like that, I bet there are all sorts of things you want to do to him.”

Green’s grip tightens painfully, bruising into the pale skin under his t-shirt, but that isn’t what has Dean forcing muffled protests out, because what the hell? It isn’t like no one’s called him pretty. The girls at his schools favor the term, when they giggle behind his back, as do some of the grungy drug dealers that make suggestively lewd comments. It’s especially bad in the summers when John doesn’t have to worry about guidance counselors questioning his choice of apartments and he’s free to stash them wherever’s cheapest.

So, yeah, pretty isn’t a new one and the few times one of those dealers have made comments in front of John, the demon hasn’t exactly rushed to defend Dean’s honor – not even when he was a confused eleven trying to figure out exactly what it was they thought he’d be good at with that mouth of his – but to actually suggest it? To offer it up as something they would want to do to him? John is a demon and he knows that, it shouldn’t hurt, but it still stings a little.

Then John opens his mouth again and the sting turns to an angry burn. “Or I could give you pointers. Doubt there’s anything you could do to him that I haven’t already done, but go ahead and try, let’s see if you can surprise me.”

All eyes turn to Dean in shock, disgust, pity, and a hundred other emotions Dean can’t even name and he can’t refute anything John’s saying, because he’s fucking gagged. He’s not a victim, not like _that_. A victim of neglect, okay – John’s never really there. A victim in that he lost his childhood when demons took his mom and dad away and he had to be strong to protect his brother, sure. But not… It’s insinuating that Dean’s been… That’s he’s used his dad’s body to…

He jerks forward in Green’s grip, because handcuffs or not, futile effort or not, he is going to wring the fucker’s neck. Green pulls him back and lets go and Dean falls on the ground, his shoulder jarring into cement and leaving him dazed. He blinks back and Green is saying something about the demon being a sick mother fucker, but John’s smiling and that’s when it hits Dean. They’re ignoring him. He’s unrestrained and they’re all watching John because they don’t think he’s a threat anymore. He’s just some poor kid John’s been _raping_ and…

Fuck this. He can deal with throttling John later; he has to get back to Sammy first.

Lunging forward, he grabs the knife from Greens boot and scratches over the surface of the trap, breaking the line. He’s not sure if it’ll be enough, but Green has him by the back of his shirt before he even digs the knife into the spray paint and it’s all he can do to carve a thin line through the edge.

Everything happens at once and Green drops him the second he realizes he’s too late, so Dean spends the next minute on the floor, seething through skinned elbows and banged knees, because his legs weren’t under him when Green let go. He can hear something slam against metal, cursing and the cracking of bones twisting the wrong way. He doesn’t bother looking up until it settles. When he does, he immediately focuses on Kyle’s vacant eyes across the room. The side of the man’s head is crushed, blood and bone and brain matter mixed together and smeared on the metal wall behind him. Eddie’s not far, head twisted the wrong way and he looks to the left to find Les, body sprawled unnaturally. Dean can’t see the damage, but there’s blood sprayed over the wall behind him, so dead is a good bet.

Finally, he sits up and finds Green on the ground behind him, John looming over him.

“What I don’t get, is why you people bother?”

Green grunts as a foot connects with his stomach, sinking in deep enough to do serious damage.

“They’re just a couple of kids. How many fucking kids go missing every year and you Hunters can’t let these two go?”

He’s punctuating the words with more kicks and Dean doesn’t have to be a doctor to know that there’s going to be broken rips, punctured organs, internal bleeding. John isn’t just your average grown man, he’s got demonic strength and from the jarring lift of Green’s body with each strike, he isn’t holding back.

John drops down to one knee and wraps his hand around Green’s throat. “Now we’re gonna play a game called I ask, you tell.”

Dean knows how this is going to end. John’s going to wring names out of Green – the names of people who can get him that yellow stone, sure, because that’s his job and his job has to take first priority, but also the names of anyone who helped Green set the trap. Green won’t want it to work, none of them do, but John can be patient and he will get his answers. Then Dean will be taking a ‘road trip’ with John to visit Bill and his family and since it won’t be about information, John’s going to be really creative with them.

His fingers tugged the gag out of his mouth while he scrambles up onto his knees, scanning the room while he desperately tries to think of anything he could say or do to make this stop. Gun, shit, he needs a gun. John’s too focused on what he’s doing to notice Dean as he stumbles across the room to Kyle’s body and digs into the waist band of his jeans until his fingers curl around the cold metal and plastic grip of a shot gun.

He’s not as steady on his feet as he’d like, so he doesn’t bother trying to stand. John’s still holding Green by the neck. Dean knows this move. He’s going to choke him unconscious so he can tie him down for the interrogation. The demon likes the display of power, but so does Dean and Green gave him permission.

It only takes one bullet. One shot and there’s a neat hole in Green’s head and he can’t answer any of John’s questions. He can’t give away Bill and his family and Dean doesn’t have to watch them die slow and bloody. For that, Dean can ignore the guilt that immediately starts eating at him as blood leaks out of the wound. Unfortunately, he can’t ignore the slow turn of John’s head as the demon’s attention goes from the dead man to him.

John doesn’t look angry, but he’s clearly waiting for some kind of explanation and Dean lowers the gun with shaking hands. It takes him a second, but he finally says. “Son of a bitch took… he took me away from Sammy.”

If it’s only half the truth, that’s okay, because when John stands and makes his way over to Dean. He doesn’t hit him, doesn’t chastise him, doesn’t even look disappointed at having lost his source of information. He puts a hand in Dean’s hair and tugs in approval. “Let’s get you out of those and get this mess cleaned up.”

 

 

*****

 

 

By the time they get in the car, it’s just after one in the morning and Dean all but passes out against the passenger side door. He wakes up six hours later to the car turning onto the dingy, beat up street. There are parts of Vegas that shift over the years, bad to worse or better then back sometimes, but this area never does. The streets are barely wide enough for one car and as beat up as the one bedroom houses on either side. When there are cars, they’re beat up, too, doors and hoods not matching the bodies.

John pulls up to the house Sammy’s in and she must really be on the wagon hard, because there’s hardly any liter in the grass and it’s actually been mowed in the last two weeks at least. The paint is still pealing, but it looks clean, like maybe she actually swept the porch and washed the windows.

The car shuts off and John doesn’t move to get out right away, just stares ahead at the morning light over the top of tattered roofs. “You’ll have to tell Sammy.”

“No.” That isn’t up for negotiation. When it’s time to tell Sammy, it’ll be on Dean’s terms.

“They might target him next time.”

Shit, he hasn’t thought about that, but John’s right. It could be Sammy next. “I’ll think of something.”

“You do that.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Bad-touch Lady has a name, Dean’s sure of it. It’s just that they don’t know what it is. Sammy doesn’t want to ask, Dean doesn’t care, and if John calls her anything when they fuck like rabbits, the two of them aren’t in the house to hear it. The minute she opens the door, standing there in shorts cut so high the pockets are falling out the bottom along with her ass cheeks, a thin tank top pressing into her mostly flat chest, John eyes cloud with lust and Dean knows that’s his cue to get Sammy out.   Not that that’s an issue, because he’s arms full of Sammy about a second later.

It’s too hot to actually wait in the car, so they sit on the porch instead, then move closer to the sidewalk when they can still hear something banging against the walls inside the house. At twelve, Sammy’s gearing up for a serious growth spurt. Dean knows this, because the kid eats his weight in food twice a day, but for now, Sammy’s still short and baby faced and Dean likes him that way.

He also likes the way Sammy mother hens him when they get back from jobs. Where Dean spends most of his days and nights playing mother, father, brother, friend to Sammy, Sammy plays nurse and doctor to Dean on these few occasions. Never around John, they’ve gotten enough disapproving looks to know he doesn’t like it, but as soon as they’re alone, Sammy insists on inspecting every bump and scrape Dean has.

Sitting on the sidewalk in front of the former crack addict’s house probably isn’t the best place for it, but Sammy’s agitated enough as it is, so Dean doesn’t argue. He dutifully sits still and lets his brother run hands over his face, which he apparently scraped at some point, his arms, especially his wrists, scabbed and still caked with dried blood. He lets Sammy lift his shirt and look at faint bruising on his ribs – he doesn’t remember getting those, just like the marks on his face.

Sammy bites his lip and Dean forces something resembling a reassuring smile onto his face. “Relax, kid, I’m fine.”

“Are you…?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. What about you? Do you need to show me on the doll where the bad lady touched you?”

Sammy’s concern sours at the tease, but he also knows the question, despite wording, is semi-serious. “No, it was okay, just more of the same.”

There’s a stretch of silence. Sammy’s holding one of Dean’s hands, running fingers over the cuts in the wrists and he looks like he wants to ask, but can’t bring himself to. John was right about one thing, Dean has to tell him something.

“Hey, Sammy? You know John’s not…” _Not what? Not their father? Not human?_ “Not a very good person, right?”

Close enough.

Sammy shrugs, still more focused on Dean’s wrist then what he’s saying. “Yeah, I figured. Good people hug their children, or, you know, talk to them.”

Dean flinches, because he knows it’s not fair to Sammy. The kid thinks his dad hates him, or at the very least doesn’t care one way or the other about him and maybe he’s wrong, but Dean still thinks it’s better than the truth. Thinking their dad is an asshole is better then knowing their real dad is inhabited by a creature of pure evil that would be just as happy gutting them as keeping them around. Actually, he’d probably be happier.

“Yeah, but no, that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh?” Sammy looks up, then, brows furrowed and hazel eyes narrow in curiosity.

“He, um, he doesn’t…” Dean’s a really good liar, he is, but not to Sammy, because the kid can see right through him. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to lie if he sticks to half the truth. “He doesn’t do what you think he does. What he does, it pisses a lot of people off. Dangerous people and sometimes they want to get back at him.”

Sammy’s thumb moves over the scabs again. “Revenge? That’s what this was about?”

“Kind of. The point is, this is the first time they’ve tried, but it probably won’t be the last. So, if someone asks you if your name is Sam Winchester, I want you to run.”

“What?!”

“I’m serious. If you’re not in school and I’m not with you and someone asks if you’re Sam Winchester, you run.”

“But…”

“Even if they have a badge.” Because he’s seen enough fake badges in Hunter cabins to know they can look real.

“A badge?!” Then drops his voice, because it might be early, but they’re still outside and neither of them really likes drawing attention to themselves. “Dean, what the hell does he do?”

“He…” Dean flounders for a second, trying to come up with the right words. “Finds things.”

“For who, the mob?!”

Actually, that isn’t far off from the truth. He doesn’t get the impression every demon works together, but certainly John has one that he answers to. From everything Dean has heard over the years, he gets the feeling Sammy’s babysitter does, too, probably the same one.

“You’re serious, aren’t you? Our dad works for the fucking _mob_? So, the jobs he takes you on, are they…?”

Sammy can’t seem to get it out, just tips his head to the side suggestively and Dean says, “Yeah.”

He doesn’t elaborate, because he isn’t sure he can.   Sammy still looks up to him with hero worship, most of the time – like he thinks Dean can make anything better and Dean tries his best to. It’s selfish, but Dean can’t give that up just yet. So, he’s relieved when Sammy doesn’t ask for details.

Instead, Sammy nods to himself more then Dean. “Okay. Okay, so if someone asks for me, I run. What then?”

“Hide.”

“Then what?”

Dean smiles and puts a hand on the back of Sammy’s head, pulling his brother into his chest, waiting for Sammy’s arms to circle around him before answering, “I’ll find you.”

If he sounds a little like John, he’s going to ignore that for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

“Sammy needs to learn how to protect himself. Sammy needs to learn how to use a gun. Sammy needs to learn knife skills.”

Dean parrots the words back at John, making sure his tone is as mocking as he dares and John looks appropriately annoyed. “You disagree?”

“I don’t know. Kind of liked my idea better.”

“Track and field isn’t an option.”

“Maybe, but it wouldn’t be nearly as much of a waste of time.”

Sammy turns to look at them from where he’s standing ten feet away, glaring. “I’m right here! And I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” John doesn’t move from where he’s sitting on the hood of the car, cleaning the underside of his nails with a hunting knife.

Sammy’s glare hardens, but he turns back and fires at the bottle, blowing a small chunk off a tree to the left. They were already in the last weeks of summer when John dragged Dean off for the job turned trap and he seems to be under the impression that he can teach Sammy to be an expert marksmen before they start school and finding time becomes more difficult.

Unfortunately, Sammy isn’t Dean and John’s idea of ‘teaching’ is to thrust a gun in Sammy’s hand and say “hit the bottle,” before ignoring him. Dean tried to help out at first, but John seemed to think Sammy shouldn’t need the help. He has unrealistic expectations and that’s Dean’s fault. Dean isn’t sure why he took to guns so well. He suspects it has something to do with giving him power he doesn’t really have, but they feel like an extension of who he is.

Again, though, Sammy isn’t him. Sammy’s been firing bullets at the same empty bottle for a week and he can’t get within two feet of it. From the stiffness of his posture and the unsteady grip he has on the weapon, he’s too uncomfortable with it. He’s probably imagining the bottle as a squirrel or a helpless bunny, because he’s smart and he has to know that’s where this is going next. Hell, if it wasn’t for the fact that Sammy just isn’t that good of an actor, Dean would think he’s missing on purpose.

Dean is betting it’s subconscious, because after an entire week, he should at least show some kind of improvement. If anything, he’s getting worse. “If you’d let me help him, we might be done sometime this century.”

Sammy shoots again, wider this time and John finally sighs out a, “Fine.”

Finally. Dean pushes up off the ground and tries to ignore the sour frown on Sammy’s face as he sidles up behind him. “Stop that, bitch face only works when I wasn’t dragged out of bed before seven to watch you miss a target from ten feet away.”

He can’t see Sammy’s face, but he can feel him relax under the gentle teasing. Dean takes a moment to widen Sammy’s stance, kicking his brother’s feet shoulder width apart before reaching over Sammy’s shoulders and adjusting the grip on the gun, wrapping his own hands around his brother’s. The warmth of skin against his palms is starkly different from the familiar feel of metal and it’s strange to have the press of Sammy’s back against his hip as he moves his own arms to force Sammy’s to the proper alignment.

“Yeah, like that.” He drops his head down and lowers his voice to a breathy whisper so John can’t hear. “It’s just a bottle, Sammy. Okay? You got me?”

Dean feels the nod of Sammy’s head as he lines up the gun with the bottle and ignores the press of Sammy’s back against his crotch. Or, tries to ignore it, he’s sixteen, he gets a hard on when random people brush up against him in the halls at school and Sammy’s doing a little more then just brushing. His back is warm and pressed firmly against him, shifting in an attempt to get comfortable with the position Dean is forcing him into.

“Now, you pull the trigger fast and hard. Don’t hesitate or you’ll mess up the aim.”

He takes his hands off Sammy’s, but doesn’t move completely away and when his brother pulls the trigger, the bottle explodes and Sammy looks back, his face split in a big grin, dimples deep and ecstatic. “I did it!”

Dean ruffles the shaggy fall of hair and Sammy pretends to be annoyed by it, but the smile doesn’t falter. When he looks back at the broken bottle, Dean takes the opportunity to adjust himself in his jeans and John chuckles at him. Fuck him, too. John goes out and gets whores, Dean has to take care of Sammy. It isn’t like he has a lot of extra time to pick up girls and even if he did, where the hell would he take them? Right now, his second best friend is his right hand and even then he’s interrupted more often then not, because John never ponies up for anything more then one bathroom and they’re lucky if they have one dedicated bedroom to share with John on the couch. Most of the time they’re in low rent efficiencies and privacy is one of those mythological things like Christmas trees and turkey on thanksgiving.

Not that he doesn’t find time – blue balls are a very real thing, Dean found that out the hard way – but tugging one out is far quicker yet less satisfying than he thinks it should be. Of course, if he’s so hard up, he can’t spot a twelve-year-old Sammy without getting a hard-on, he may have to start making the time.

 

 

*****

 

 

Saying he’ll make time and actually doing it are two different things. John settles them in a large town and pays for a month in an efficiency shithole with no bedroom and one bathroom and then doesn’t leave. It’s one thing to stash them somewhere small when he won’t be there, because Sammy doesn’t take up much space and Dean’s so used to his brother, it doesn’t feel so much like an invasion of his space as just having both his arms. John’s presence, however, is like an oppressive weight.

Normally, John settles them down and goes about his routine of disappearing for a week or two at a time, showing back up only to reassure himself that there’s nothing worth his attention before going back out. In the six weeks since school started, John has left for one day. Dean wishes he could say it’s as simple as him not having a job at the moment, but he knows that both isn’t true and wouldn’t matter. The yellow stone is still unrecovered and even without that, the demon doesn’t like playing house with kids.

Which is another thing, because it’s been years since John stood around and stared. If he was just staring at Dean, it might not be so bad, but he’s staring at Sammy. Sammy seems oblivious. John’s spent so many years ignoring Sammy, that he’s learned how to return the favor. It’s easy enough for Sammy to pretend John isn’t there, but Dean’s spent that same time learning to keep John in the corner of his eye no matter what else he’s doing. After eleven years, it’s second nature.

So, it’s not surprising that he can wake up with morning wood, but he can’t manage to do anything about it. He skips PE a few times and jacks off in a stall in the locker room, but the heavy smell of sweat and steam that permeates the entire room makes that a confusing and decidedly awkward activity.

Dean’s all but given up when he meets Carrie. Or, more precisely, when Carrie decides to introduce herself to him. She’s one of the popular kids, blonde, big brown doe eyes, and wearing some kind of lavender spice body scent that Dean doesn’t hate, but still makes him want to sneeze.

She sits herself down next to him just as he’s finishing up what passes for lasagna by school standards. “Hi, I’m Carrie. You probably don’t know me, you don’t really… socialize with, well, anyone – at all – but, I was wondering if you wanted to go out and get… I don’t know, ice cream or something after school?”

Her cheeks are slightly pink and he can see a group of girls huddling together a few tables over, watching like they’re trying to pretend they’re not. It’s not that he doesn’t get it, he’s heard the rumors the last few weeks. He’s the new kid, they think he’s cute, but he’s anti-social and no one wants to approach him. If anything, he figures this is a dare of some kind and he’d like to help her out - it’s no skin off his back if he’s the butt of a joke, because they’re probably leaving in a few days anyway – but he really can’t.

“I’m sorry, look, you’re cute and all, but I’ve got to pick up my brother after school.”

She bites her lip and plays her fingers over a black rubber bracelet on her left wrist, leaning in and lowering her voice so no one else can hear. “Okay, then how about we skip next period and go make out in a closet for a while?”

“You what now?”

“Look, you’re hot. Like, stupid hot. Like crazy, stupid hot and you have the whole bad boy thing going for you and my friends over there have been panting after you for weeks now, but you don’t seem to notice and no one has the guts to say anything, so I am. Do you want to go make out in a closet instead of going to algebra?”

Hell yes, he does. He grabs his bag and she throws her friends a thumbs up and trots after him and it’s amazing. It’s better then amazing. She’s soft in all the right places and lets him put a hand up her shirt and has no problem telling him where and how to move against her to make it feel good. He can’t even be embarrassed when he cums in his pants, because he’s got a tongue down her throat and her leg wrapped around his hip and he hasn’t jacked off in almost a week.

When they’re done, he’s out of breath and she’s grinning at him smugly while she re-arranges her skirt. If her disheveled clothes didn’t give away what they’d been doing, her red puffy lips and the smell of sex clinging to both of them will.

She runs hands through her hair, tugging at tangles. “So, little brother?”

“Yeah.” Dean nods, pulling his shirt tails down over the damp patch of his jeans. He’ll have to stop in the bathroom to clean up.

“Is he as cute as you?” For a second, Dean thinks she’s serious, but her smile belays that. “So, same time tomorrow?”

“Huh?”

She stops, half out the door, “If you don’t want to…”

“No, no, definitely… yeah.”

“Good!”

 

 

*****

 

 

Carrie’s nice in that she’s kind of a bitch. Maybe not as bad as some of the other girls, but she doesn’t particularly care about Dean other then his ability to help move her up the social ladder. Apparently, fooling around with him is helping win her some serious popularity points and that’s about all she wants from him. Not that she doesn’t enjoy the dry humping and making out, she probably wouldn’t do it if she didn’t, but maybe she would. She has some serious self-esteem issues.

They aren’t dating because that would require them doing something other then getting off in various closets and empty rooms throughout the school, and they aren’t fuck buddies because that implies actual fucking or, at the very least, being friends with the person in question and he doesn’t think they’re friends, either. It’s a little confusing, but mostly it just feels good so he tries not to think about it too much. It’s about priorities and Dean has his – Sammy, Dad, John, himself, and how to properly dispose a gutted corpse when John’s finished with it. That’s it. That’s all he has room for.

Still, it’s fun and he’s more relaxed then he has been in years, which is probably why he doesn’t stop to think about the consequences until he has a slip of paper in his hand that he has to get signed by John, saying he has eight days of detention to serve – one for every class he skipped – which, of course, means they’ll be moving again. John doesn’t like being inconvenienced just because Dean couldn’t keep himself out of trouble.

He can already hear Sammy complaining. Not that he even likes the shit apartment or the school he’s in, because he’s already told Dean how much he hates it there, but he hates moving more. He hates the uncertainty of where they’re going. John never tells them, if he even knows himself. Sometimes, Dean thinks he just drives till he feels like stopping.

If the teacher hadn’t called John… but she has and the rest doesn’t matter.

“Dean?”

“Huh?” He pulls back from where he’s sucking at the junction of Carrie’s neck, his thigh pressing up between her legs. Her face is flushed faintly in pink, but twisted in annoyance. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t know. Is there?”

“What?”

Her hand squeezes around his dick, not even half hard in his jeans. “You seem a little distracted.”

Fair enough. He wants to be all there, but most of him is already in the apartment, trying to explain to Sammy why they have to pack before bed.

She drops her leg and straightens her skirt, correctly sensing the mood and that nothing’s going to happen. Dean really wishes he could fake it, because he has no way of knowing if he’ll get this lucky again, but he’s not nearly hard up enough to be able to push past the mental image of Sammy with tears of frustration welling up in his eyes while he shoves their few possessions in his bags.

“So,” she tilts her head, dragging her eyes up and down him before relaxing fully into the wall behind her. “What’s eating you?”

He briefly considers telling her it’s none of her business, but what the hell. “We’re moving.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Tonight probably.”

She laughs a little, but it’s sarcastic and forced. “Probably?”

“We move a lot.” It’s not an answer, really, but then he doesn’t have one for her.

“Okay, well,” she brushes his hair back out off his forehead and her nails scrape against his skin. “If you change your mind, I’m staying late to watch Lacy practice.”

She knows he won’t come, even as she throws him a look over her shoulder on the way out. He’s made it clear his brother comes first and the few times she suggested it wouldn’t kill the kid if he was fifteen minutes late, were the times he didn’t bother meeting up with her.

He still goes through the rest of the day because there’s no point drawing more attention to himself. If anyone suspects something is wrong with him, they might try a home visit or, worse, call John again and then the demon might feel the need to cover his tracks. He still might, but Dean can mitigate the damage by not adding to it. He doesn’t, however, take notes. He throws away the homework on the way out and if the teachers notice, they don’t say anything.

Dean isn’t exactly a straight A student and not because he isn’t smart. He gets the material, he aces the tests, when he shows up, but he doesn’t bother with homework, or school projects. They aren’t worth the time and effort. He’s been through lectures and meetings about not living up to his potential, but he doesn’t see the point. It’s not like he has life goals and aspirations beyond keeping Sammy alive and getting his dad back. If that ever happens, then maybe, but Dean doesn’t allow himself to live in a world of maybe. Maybe keeps him awake at night wondering what he’s going to do wrong next and who’ll get killed for it; maybe makes him wonder if his dad’s body isn’t too damaged to survive already; maybe is looking back at what he could have done different and who might still be alive if he had; maybe eats him up inside. So, he doesn’t bother caring about his grades beyond keeping them above failing so no one has a reason to call John.

After school, Sammy’s waiting on the sidewalk in front of the middle school. He knows the apologetic expression on Dean’s face instantly and his shoulder’s sag. Neither of them say anything, but they both take five minutes to make sure their clothes are packed down into their duffels and the few things they consider possessions are in their backpacks.

Sammy looks just as pained as Dean knew he would, sulking through spaghetti-o’s and Medical Detectives – a show on the use of forensics in crime solving. He’s developed an obsession with forensics and all things crime related since Dean told him about John’s less then legal career choice. It’s not the excited kind of obsession of a kid following their favorite baseball team, but more of a morbid curiosity. Like he wants to know more, but can’t bring himself to ask, so he watches it on television to help fill in the blanks. Dean lets it go, because he doesn’t want to answer any of those questions he knows Sammy has.

They fall asleep together on the couch, waiting for John to get back. Sammy finding his usual place pressed back to chest against Dean, his head pillowed on his brother’s shoulder and the television going from late night shows to white static at some point they can’t remember. When John wakes them up, it’s three in the morning and the bags are already in the car.

Sammy says a few unflattering things under his breath, but thankfully, John just finds it amusing and hangs a few steps behind while Dean gets the kid out to the car on shuffling feet and stretches him in the back. Sammy shifts and twists and by the time their ten minutes out of town, he’s breathing deep into the leather of the back seat, one leg hanging off onto the floor, the other twisted awkwardly to fit into the space.

It won’t be long before they outgrow living in a car. Sammy’s small for his age right now, but it won’t last much longer. Dean rolls his fingers over the beaded bracelet Sammy gave him six years ago and thinks about how small Sammy was back then and whether John’s even going to care when he outgrows it. Probably not. He says it all the time – whenever he thinks Dean needs to hear it again – his job is to keep Sammy alive and accessible, not happy.

He turns his head to look out the window at the pitch black of country highway when something falls on his leg. His hand grabs it before he looks down, because it’s small and light. He’d think it was a bug if he didn’t already have his fingers wrapped around a thin plastic circle, blending it together in his fist. The top of the black loop is sticking out of his suddenly clenched fist and it’s just a little black rubber bracelet. They sell them at the mall for less then a dollar and half the kids at school are wearing them, but he knows who this one belongs to and he knows what the rough substance flaking off it onto his hand is.

John waits, gives Dean a chance to say something. When he doesn’t, John offers, “You liked her?”

Dean has to think about it, because kind of, but no, not really. “No.”

“Good.” He actually sounds like he means it. “Find something more constructive to do with your time.”

John gives it another minute before turning the music on. Sammy shifts in his sleep at the sudden increase in volume, but doesn’t wake up and Dean slips the bracelet on his wrist next to Sammy’s birthday present, letting it rub the flakes of red into his skin.

 

 

*****

 

 

Dean’s not insubordinate by nature. Really, he isn’t, and even if he had been, John’s done enough to beat it out of him, but he’s closing in on seventeen and John keeps putting them up in one bedroom trailers and efficiencies. Even when he does start going out and staying gone more, Dean still has Sammy there twenty four seven and it’s enough to drive anyone to hook up with the nearest available human. At this point he almost doesn’t care what’s in their pants as long they’re willing to get in his. Almost, because fooling around with guys is going to draw a hell of a lot more attention then fooling around with girls and what John doesn’t know, isn’t going to get anyone killed, so the less attention he gets the better.

The first town after Carrie, he isn’t desperate enough to even take a serious look around. By the second town, he finds himself looking at the girls, but the idea of following through makes him nauseous. Third school and they’re coming up on Christmas. Dean’s stomach still turns a little when he smiles at someone he catches staring at his ass in the hall, but before he can make for the bathroom, she uses a finger to call him over. She then proceeds to ask if he wants to spend their lunch hour having sex in the back stage area of the theater room.

It’s not half bad for a first time, they don’t miss class, and he doesn’t hook up with her again. Hell, he doesn’t even know her name. He figures it’s better that way, because if John kills her – and he might, because he made it pretty clear how he felt about Dean hooking up with girls and this is probably the closest Dean’s ever come to open defiance – it’ll be easier to push her back into the catacomb of people he’s seen dead for one reason or another.

If John knows about it, he doesn’t say anything. The girl is still in class the next day and the day after that and Dean feels a sense of relief. Not about having had sex, though seriously that was awesome, but because he got away with it. He isn’t going to push his luck, but having gotten away with it? It feels good.

 

 

*****

 

 

Just after his seventeenth birthday, John takes Dean to a pimp. They go through this particular town in southern Louisiana at least once a year. Dean knows people there, not good people, but he knows a few drug dealers by face if not name, the old lady that owns the should-be condemned motel they usually stay at, some of the local prostitutes that take out rooms in the ‘establishment’ – and he’s using that term lightly - and their pimp, Snagglepuss Joe. So named, because of the cartoon cat that takes up his entire left arm.

They hadn’t gone very far, just to the other end of the motel where Joe has a room rented and one of his girls strung out on the bed, her pupils like pin points in bright blue eyes ringed with lashes caked in black mascara. The only thing he can think is that maybe this is John’s idea of a birthday present. Thing is, Dean liked sex the one time he had it, but he knows the kind of girls Joe peddles and he’s not even remotely interested in middle aged women so shot up on drugs they don’t care what you’re doing as long as it gets them their next hit. He’d rather stick his dick in a blender. At least a blender isn’t as likely to give him a venereal disease.

Dean takes about five seconds to assess the situation before he says, “No thanks,” and turns around to walk out.

John grabs him by the back of his neck and turns him around, “Cute, now sit.”

He doesn’t want to sit, but John shoves him down and he doesn’t have much of a choice. If it’s not about the girl, though, what the hell is he doing here? The bedside table has a few things laid out. Pens, knife, paper clips, random odds and ends that he can’t really make heads or tails of, and Joe’s dressed in his wife beater and tattered jeans, the heater turned up so high it’s actually hot in the room, despite the forty degree temperature outside.

John stays standing over him, looking down with his normal air of authority and a tone of something that isn’t quiet disinterest. “Joe here has kindly offered to give you a lesson in a skill I sadly lack experience in.”

There’s only one thing Dean can think of that Joe might be able to teach him that John can’t. As far as Dean knows, Joe doesn’t deal in boys, never has, but that doesn’t really mean anything. If you’re a petty thief that likes to snatch wallets and someone leaves their front door unlocked, why the hell not? It’s the same principle. At least, he figures it probably is; Dean’s never thought much about it, not until just now.

He turns to Joe and states bluntly, “I will bite it off.”

Joe laughs, full and honest to god amused and John chuckles darkly next to him and Dean’s can’t help the sink in his stomach before John says, “Lock picking. I’ve never really had the need, but Joe assured me he can teach you.”

Lock picking? That’s… actually that’s kind of awesome and completely unexpected. John gave him the spare cuffs and told him to figure it out a few months ago and Dean’s been trying, but there aren’t exactly books on the subject at the local libraries. It isn’t like the demon to enlist outside help, especially not the human variety. Unless Joe’s not human.

He narrows his eyes at the pimp and says, “Christo,” which gets him nothing by a confused laugh from Joe and John smacking him upside the back of the head. Human, then. Not that he would have refused the help, either way, but still good to know. Joe isn’t exactly a small man, certainly a good deal bigger then Dean, but Dean has a knife tucked into his boot and he’s pretty sure knife trumps fist if it comes down to it.

John stands a moment longer, staring at Dean like he doesn’t want to leave and finally steps back. “I’ll get him in two hours.”

The room isn’t silent because the television is on low and whoever the girl is, she’s mumbling to herself a few feet away, but Joe doesn’t say anything until John’s footsteps have faded and there’s a faint slam of a door. When he does, it’s with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile. “A little overprotective, ain’t he?”

Not really, no. Or, well, possessive is probably more accurate, not that he’s talking about this with Snagglepuss Joe while a doped up hooker is having a conversation with her imaginary friend in the same room. Instead, he sticks with what he knows best. Violence. “I have a knife.”

Joe keeps on smiling. “Good to know.”

He produces handcuffs from his back pocket and demonstrates how to pick the lock with one of the paper clips. It’s deceptively simply and Dean struggles with it for nearly half an hour before he finally manages to wedge it in and twist it to get the right bend and angle. It pops open and Dean looks at the open cuff in wary relief. He’d done it, but it had taken a lot longer then he was gonna have if there were Hunters watching him.

“Bobby pins work, too, anything small, metal and bendable. Wood’s no good, it’ll break off in the mechanism and you’ll be up shit creek even if you get the key. With enough practice you can get it done in under a minute.” Joe takes the cuffs back, snaps it on his wrist and twenty seconds later, drops it back in Dean’s lap, open. “Now, if you don’t have a paper clip handy, there’s another way.”

He pulls the ball point pin over and brakes off the metal clip. “We call this a shim - just a small, flat piece of metal.”

Joe snaps the cuffs back on himself and wedges the shim in. A few clicks later, it slides open. “Shim’s a little harder to come by. You can make one from a Coke can or the end of a pen if you can find it.”

He tosses another pen at Dean and the cuffs. This is easier, takes less time, but Joe is right, in a pinch, a shim would be harder to come by then a paperclip. They practice a few more times. The girl falls asleep at some point.

He’s got the paperclip bent one way, then the other and he’s trying to find the hole again when Joe decides it’s a good time for conversation. “So, s’that really your daddy, or is he your _daddy_.”

The way he says daddy the second time makes Dean drop to damn paper clip. He fishes it out of the matted down carpet and glares at the cuffs rather then make eye contact with the pimp. “It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like then, kid?” Dean looks up for a second and Joe’s got his elbows propped on his knees like he’s honest to god interested. “I’ve known your daddy a while now and he don’t strike me as the paternal sort.”

“He’s not.”

There’s a long stretch of silence and Dean tries to focus on the lock while Joe apparently goes back to digging where he’s not wanted. “Why’s your daddy so interested in you learning how to get out of those?”

“Why does a low-life pimp from bum-fuck Louisiana know how to get out of handcuffs in the first place?” _Actually…_ “You know what? Never mind, I think I can figure that one out for myself.”

There’s a flash of something like anger and Dean’s hand twitches, thinking about going after his knife, but waits and the anger subsides quickly enough. Joe reaches over and takes a cigarette out of the night stand, lighting it almost absently. The woman isn’t moving. Her breathing is fast and shallow. Dean manages to hold in a gagging cough as smoke hits him in the face.

It’s a tense sort of stalemate and Dean decides it isn’t worth the effort. “Last summer some guys tried to use me to get to him. It’s not happening again.”

Joe seems to let the words sink into him before he nods. “It’s not just cuffs you’ll want to worry about. If it’s not cops, they might use rope. You any good at hand to hand?”

Some, yeah, but not really. John prefers weapons to fist-a-cuffs. He’s shown Dean a few tricks, but nothing more then what he needs to hold back an attack until the demon can get there. His hesitation must read louder then the words he isn’t saying, because Joe seems to understand.

“Next time your down this way, I have someone that can teach you a few things. Probably teach that brother of yours, too.”

“Sammy’s off limits.” It’s automatic, like breathing. Sammy is his responsibility and he’ll pass what he learns to his brother if he thinks he needs to. This probably is, but then it begs the question, “Why? What’s in it for you?”

Pimps and drug dealers and hustler, they don’t do things for free. That woman half alive on the bed behind Joe knows that better then Dean. If Joe’s offering him something, there’s a cost and he’s not sure he wants to pay it.

“Say you owe me.”

“Owe you how?” Because there are things he won’t do, not even for John and then there’s a bigger list of things he’ll only do for John.

Joe shrugs, but his smile hasn’t dropped, just faded a little in annoyance. He must not be used to smart kids asking the right questions and wanting to know exactly what they’re getting into. Joe’s bread and butter is a little naive and a lot desperate and Dean’s neither.

“When I need it, you vouch for me with John.”

It’s not a bad deal, really. Snagglepuss Joe isn’t a good guy, but he’s nowhere near the worst Dean’s ever met – that privilege goes to John himself. Besides that, Dean’s pretty sure Joe’s getting the raw end of that deal, because John doesn’t really take Dean’s word for anything unless it has to do with Sammy. Okay, he doesn’t take Dean’s word for that either, he just lets Dean draw the line there. For now, anyway.

So, really, if that’s all he’s asking, Joe’s giving Dean something for nothing and Dean’s gonna take it. “You got yourself a deal.”


	8. Chapter 8

John gets his information, then he buys himself a night with one of Joe’s prostitutes. He rents another room so they don’t have to sleep in the car – which has happened before, but it’s close to freezing out and John isn’t willing to risk the inconvenience of one or both of them getting sick. Unfortunately, it’s the room right next to theirs and they can hear everything.

Even knowing it’s not his actual father doesn’t make that any better. Sammy’s face is scrunched in distaste and after a few hours of on again and off again moaning, groaning, and increasingly hoarse screaming, he actually bangs against the wall with the flat of his hand. Dean chokes back laughter when it gets louder in response.

“Come here.”

Sammy grudgingly lies back down and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. “I have school tomorrow.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Not that he cares, really, but he suspects Sammy does. It worries him sometimes that Sammy cares enough about school to really try beyond what’s necessary to pass and keep the counselors off their asses. He also can’t help feeling like it justifies his decision not to tell Sammy about John. Just like he knows other kids his age don’t sleep in the same bed as their not-so-little brother and they certainly don’t cuddle up with them. He knows there aren’t many other sixteen-years-olds that can’t sleep without the hot press of their twelve-year-old brother’s heat against them. But he also knows he can’t give it up, because it’s as much for him as it is for Sammy. It reminds him that he’s doing the right thing, at least for now.

He tucks his head down into Sammy’s hair. “Ground control to Major Tom.”

Sammy looks up, brows drawn together in confusion. “What was that?”

“Ground Control to Major Tom.”

“Seriously?”

“Take your protein pill and put your helmet on.”

“I’m not six anymore.”

“Ground control to Major Tom.” Sammy sits up and he grabs a pillow, momentarily muffling the next line of, “Commencing countdown…”

Dean rips the pillow off and raises his voice. “…engines on. Check ignition and may God’s love be with you.”

Sammy starts to turn away, probably to get off the bed and lock himself in the bathroom until Dean’s done making an ass of himself, but Dean grabs his arm and pulls him back down on the bed.

“This is Ground Control to Major Tom. You’ve really made the grade.”

Despite protest, Sammy doesn’t try to get back up. His weight settles against Dean through the next verse and by the time Dean winds up the last refrain, he’s breathing deep and relaxed and the noise has subsided in the other room again.

Sammy sighs into Dean’s chest and his arms stretches out over his chest. “You’re a total freak, you know that?”

It hits a little too close to home, but Dean hears the affection in the tone and smiles into Sammy’s hair. “Yeah, well.”

He doesn’t finish the thought, because Sammy pulls in tighter to him and his breathing even out and he’s a heavy weight of sleep that’s dragging Dean down with it.

 

 

*****

 

 

“What I don’t get, is if he works for the mob, why doesn’t he make better money?”

“Maybe crime doesn’t pay as much as you think it does.”

“No, seriously, I’ve been watching documentaries…”

“Yeah, because those never lie or exaggerate the truth to make it more interesting.” Dean spoons the macaroni and tuna into the plastic bowl and sets it down where Sammy looks at it like he’s really hoping it gets up and crawls away so he doesn’t have to eat it.

“Still, there has to be something to it, right? For him to keep doing it, he has to be getting paid.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and feigns impatience as Sammy reluctantly picks up his fork. Not that Dean blames him. The place doesn’t have a working oven and John’s been gone longer than usual, which means they’re running out of options in the pantry. Dean knows how to make it stretch, though, so they’ve been eating dry cereal, ramen, and macaroni for a week now. They can make it another week if they have to. They won’t, but they can. John’s not good for many things, but he isn’t going to let them starve.

“Maybe he just enjoys hurting people, Sammy, ever think of that?” Sammy stops chewing and Dean curses himself, because he knows this is a touchy subject, but Sammy’s not the only one thinking that maybe starving would be preferable to eating another bowl of Ramen. “Look, I know you want answers, but I don’t have any. I don’t exactly go to business meeting.”

“What is it you do, then?” Then he hesitates, because Dean’s knows his expression has gone blank. Better that then the anxiety he really feels.

The idea of Sammy knowing the lengths he’ll go to for John is probably one of his worst nightmares. Worse than the one where he gets Dad back and the man wants nothing to do with him, because he was awake the whole time, he saw everything and he doesn’t think Dean did the right thing. Sammy knowing is worse than Dad knowing, because Dad is a wish and memory and a possibility in the future, but Sammy is right here and right now and his disappointment is something Dean doesn’t think he can bear. Not yet. Maybe not ever, but he isn’t naïve enough to think that’s an option.

Thankfully, Sammy knows Dean well enough to know what that shut down expression means. It isn’t the first time it’s happened. It isn’t the first time Sammy’s asked, only to back down when Dean can’t bring himself to answer.

Sammy sinks back in his seat and smiles, changing the subject by reaching behind him into his bag. “Almost forgot, I got my report card!”

It’s all top marks, but Dean doesn’t expect less.

They finish dinner, do homework and curl up on the couch, wrapping around each other’s personal space, television blowing nothing but static noise into the room by the time John walks in. Dean’s mostly asleep, but the turn of the key in the lock wakes him up quickly enough.

It’s not like they’ve ever been big on greeting each other on arrival. They both know they have each other in the corner of their eye at all time, so it isn’t really necessary. Still, the demon’s been gone now for nearly an entire month and Dean almost feels like he owes him an explanation. Not for his absence, fuck that, his absence is welcome, but for not leaving extra money if he’s going to be gone that long.

He slips out from under Sammy, careful to make sure his brother doesn’t wake up. By the time he makes it into what could arguably be considered a kitchenette, John has a beer open. The handle of the fridge is smudged red and Dean groans inwardly, because that means the inside of the car is probably covered in it. At least the seats are black. It means he can probably wait until later in the afternoon and no one will notice. The fridge and anything else John’s touched, though, he has to do before Sammy wakes up.

Leaning into the opening, he eyes the demon critically. “You’re late.”

John swallows thickly and reaches in the pocket of his leather jacket. When he pulls his fist out, a silver chain is hanging between his fingers, a yellow stone swaying at the end. He waits a beat before tossing it over and Dean catches it, hissing at the burning cold that stings his palm. He changes his grip to the chain, the pendent nowhere near his skin. It’s set in a thin woven silver pattern and he can feel the cold coming off it from about six inches. If he was looking for it, he’d probably notice it from a solid foot. The stone itself almost looks like it’s moving. Yellow smoke in clear crystal and Dean holds it up higher, gets closer, because it’s fascinating.

“This is it, then? The thing you were looking for?”

John nods, “Would have had it sooner if you hadn’t killed Green.”

Dean doesn’t bother to look over as he replies, “I wouldn’t have killed Green if you hadn’t been stupid enough to walk me into a trap.”

“You’re mouthy tonight.”

Yeah, he is. He’s feeling reckless, probably because he’s a little hungry and a lot tired and he has school tomorrow. Speaking of, “I want to drop out.”

“Of what?”

“School.” It’s been on his mind a lot lately. If he didn’t have to go to school, he could maybe pick up a part time job.

John takes his time finishing his beer before closing the distance between them and taking the stone back. “No.”

“What?” He’s more confused than upset, because telling John about it had been more about covering his ass then actually getting permission. The demon doesn’t particularly care about his education, at least not the one he gets at school. He hasn’t even thought about how to present an argument for this, because it hasn’t occurred to him there could be one. “Why?!”

John glances at the sofa, at Sammy still tucked up on beaten down cushions and doesn’t turn back to Dean until it’s clear Sammy isn’t waking up. “Gotta keep the peace, Dean. When you’re eighteen, you can do whatever you want, until then, he insists.”

“Wha… he?” Not whatever demon John takes order from, because it doesn’t care about Dean. John can do whatever the fuck he wants with Dean as long as Sammy stays in one piece, but if not that then…

“Daddy Winchester.”

Dean goes cold, like ice is running through his veins. It’s not that he doesn’t know his dad is in there, but knowing and hearing the demon say it… he feels very small all of a sudden. He’s five and John is leaning in, leering down, towering over him, amused grin curling up one side of his mouth. At some point, he’d latched onto the idea that his dad had to be so far back in his own mind that he wasn’t even really there in any conscious way. He knows from what he’s read and heard from other hunters he’s played bait for, that if he ever manages to get John out, his dad will remember everything, but knowing he’ll remember and knowing he’s watching and listening right now…

He swallows against the urge to be sick as John leans in closer still, driving him back a step and into the cheap plastic counter top, its pealing edge digging into Dean’s back. John’s voice is low and rough. “He can’t push me out, but he can kick up a fuss and it can be… inconvenient. Annoying. So, like I said, you turn eighteen you can do whatever you want, until then, you go to school.”

Dean’s entire body is tight, reading threat from John being this close. They don’t do close, not like this. This is John’s face inches from his by height alone, their legs a breath away from touching and Dean’s gripping the edge of the counter, because otherwise he’s going to try to push John away and he doesn’t know if the demon will take that as a challenge or worse.

John’s eyes move over Dean’s features. “You’re almost there, though, right?”

“January.” His voice is shakier then he’d like, uncertain.

“Yeah, not so much a kid anymore, are you?” It isn’t like he’s actually trying anything. John’s hands have moved to rest on the counter behind Dean, but they aren’t touching him, just boxing him in with arms and the smell of sweat and blood. And it isn’t like he’s ever hinted at anything even remotely sexual where Dean is concerned. John likes drugged out prostitutes and Sammy’s demonic babysitter. John doesn’t like kids and Dean… Dean isn’t a kid anymore. Not really, certainly not where it counts and as much as Dean wants to say John likes consensual or that he doesn’t like men, John’s a demon. There really is no telling what he does for kicks that Dean doesn’t see.

What it comes down to is that as much as Dean doesn’t think John means what he’s implying – or maybe just hopes – as much as this feels like nothing more than a threat, to him and to his dad, who’s watching this from where he’s shackled and chained and buried in his own mind, Dean isn’t that naïve.

He’s also armed.

Between one breath and the next, he has the knife out of the back of his jeans and pressed into John’s stomach. For several seconds no one moves, Dean can’t even bring himself to breathe, but he eventually manages to get out, “Back away. Now.”

John isn’t smiling anymore, so that’s something. He takes a moment to study the knife where it’s dimpling into his flannel shirt and then back at Dean, gaze steady.

“You know that won’t kill me.”

“Yeah, but it’ll hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“It’ll do more than that. It’ll kill daddy.” It would, god, if John decides to leave, Dean will be lucky to get a few minutes before his dad bleeds out, but still…

“He’d rather die than watch me roll over for you without a fight.” If it comes to that, Dean’s pretty sure he’ll lose. His only real chance is to run and to do that, he has to be willing to leave Sammy behind and that isn’t happening. So, if John really is going to, he can’t stop him, but he’s going to try.

John’s expression stutters in a way that reminds Dean of the early days, when his dad used to fight back and then it falls back into a lopsided smile. “I think you’re right about that.”

Dean doesn’t see the demon move, but he feels the fingers close around the wrist of his knife hand a split second before they twist and he hears the cracking of bones. His vision whites out and when it comes back, he’s on his knees on the floor, clutching his arm to his chest. It’s radiating fire up into his shoulder and chest. He doesn’t remember screaming, but his throat feels raw and Sammy’s calling his name from the other side of the wall, sounding confused and disoriented.

His knife is picked up off the ground beside him where he doesn’t remember dropping it and John presses a hand into the back of his neck almost affectionately, before he stands up and walks into the living room.

“Sammy, get your shoes on. Dean had an accident.”

 

 

*****

 

 

“It’s broken.”

The twenty four hour emergency clinic is the closest thing to a hospital Dean has ever stepped foot in and this is probably the closest to whining he’s ever come. He was cowed well enough when Sammy helped peel him off the floor of the kitchen and helped him to the car. He was sedate on the drive over, determined not to let on how much the thing throbbed and burned up the length of his arm. Now, though? Now, his wrist has been flexed, twisted, and palpated until he’s nauseous with pain and his self-preservation is shot all to hell.

John shrugs, like he’s been doing since Sammy first started asking what the fuck happened. Sammy is practically bouncing in the seat John forced him to sit in, because he was tired of watching him hover over Dean like he was going to fall apart without the extra attention. There’s a prescription in John’s pocket for pain killers that they’re supposed to go pick up after this.

“Six weeks in a cast. Minimum.” John raises an eye brow and Dean isn’t sure why that pisses him off more than the shrugging, but it does. “Maybe longer and then I’ll be in a brace for another month after.”

“You’ll manage.”

“This is my gun hand.” He has just enough presence of mind to lower his voice at the word gun, in case the nurse happens to be within earshot.

“Which is why we’re here.”

He opens his mouth, but shuts it when the door handle turns and the nurse comes back in, pushing a tray of supplies in front of her. She looks between the two of them, before focusing her attention on John. “If you’ll step outside, sir, I’ll go over the instructions for care while the doctor sets the cast.”

When he hesitates, she gives him a reassuring pat on the arm. “It takes less than ten minutes and then you and your boys can get some sleep.”

Her hand lingers on John’s arm and Dean goes ahead and rolls his eyes at the slow spread of smile on the demon’s face. Thank god Sammy’s trailing after them, intent on listening to the care instructions, because that definitely isn’t on John’s list of priorities. And the demon probably wouldn’t leave Sammy alone in the waiting room while he fucks the kind of pretty nurse. Probably.

The doctor steps in as they leave, closing the door behind him. He’s a short round man with a balding head, wire rimmed glasses, and an unassuming smile. Dean likes him in that the way he usually likes people who ask too many questions – nice to know someone cares, but it would be easier if they didn’t. He sits on the rolling stool in front of Dean and pulls the tray over, taking the broken wrist in hand to palpate it some more.   Son of a bitch, he is never going near another hospital ever again.

“How did you say you did this again?”

“Wrestling with my brother.” The doctor looks up at him, his lips pursed tightly in disbelief. “Kid’s stronger then he looks.”

Like that isn’t a load of shit. Sammy’s small for his age and swimming in Dean’s castoffs gives him the appearance of being even scrawnier then he already is. The doctor stares him down, or, well, up, given their respective vantage points, but it’s still just as affective, so Dean tries again.

“Look, not for nothing, because I get what this looks like and I’m not saying he gets father of the year or anything, but this is on me, okay?”

Because he’s the one that thought it was a good idea to bring a knife to a demon fight and even if he’d do it again, it still makes whatever happens as a result his fault. Hell, it makes whatever happens to the doctor if he doesn’t drop it Dean’s fault, but at this point, Dean honestly doesn’t care anymore. It’s too late, or possibly too early to care.

The doctor chuckles, “I don’t doubt that. My boy does have a temper, though.”

It takes him a minute to work through that – not just the words, but the way the change of inflection drives the voice subtlety higher and the clouding of yellow coming in over the pale blue of human eyes. Before he can move the doctor’s thumb slips down and into the flesh of his wrist, pressing against the broken bone and driving Dean’s breath from him.

“Careful there, kiddo. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Go fu…”

The press on his wrist tightens, forcing him close his mouth and lock his throat or let out the cry of pain trying to claw its way out of his throat. He uses the seconds it takes for his pain blurred vision to clear to steady himself. The only thing he knows of that has yellow eyes is the thing that killed his mother, the thing that ordered the demon to infest his father. Not that John’s ever said it outright, but Dean’s capable of putting two and two together, even if he sometimes wishes he couldn’t. So, when the grip loosens on his wrist, he goes ahead and pushes out, “fuck yourself,” through clenched teeth and waits for the pain again.

It doesn’t come, instead, the yellowed eyed demon laughs. “Now I see why he keeps you around. Why don’t you go ahead and leave those hands where I can see ‘em.”

Like he has a choice. Dean doesn’t say that, though. He holds his throbbing hand still while the demon plays doctor and rolls a fingerless cover down his arm, then wraps a thick layer of plain white gauze over that, before opening a sealed pack to reveal a roll of yellow casting. He considers trying to walk out when he sees the color, but he really doesn’t want to find out how quickly it can stop him.

It doesn’t speak again until its got the first layer of sticky material in place and Dean can’t decide whether he’s grateful for that much or pissed off at life in general.

“My boy tells me you train up nice.”

Pissed off at life in generally, it is.

“I’ll admit, I had my doubts, told him more than once it was time to dump the excess baggage, but you really have proven yourself useful – and not just at changing Sammy’s diapers.”

It would be a completely futile gesture, but his foot is hanging at just the right height to nail the thing in the crotch.

“How is Sammy, by the way?”

“Fine.” Because not answering will do nothing more than drag this out and he wants it over with.

“Getting good grades?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. Smart boy like him, he could do _anything_.” The way it says ‘anything’ doesn’t mean like be an astronaut or the president, but Dean doesn’t care what any of them think Sammy can do, because whatever it is, it’s not happening. “You on the other hand? That’s a different matter.”

He just bets it is.

“Pulling a knife on a demon?   That wasn’t very smart.”

No, it wasn’t. He does a lot of things that aren’t smart, though. Still doesn’t regret any of them. Well, most of them.

The last of the casting rolls on and the latex gloves make a sticky squelch as they peel off with every press and release, securing it in place.

“You understand if I think you’re a liability, I’ll have to order John to take care of you. He likes ya, Dean. He likes watching you struggle with all those morals of yours and still end up doing exactly what he tells you to. He likes watching you enjoy it, but if I tell him to, he will rip your beating heart out of your chest and feed it to Sammy.   I _made_ him. There isn’t anything he won’t do for me.”

Yeah, he gets that. He’s always gotten that, even when he doesn’t want to.

“Well, this has been swell, but I trust I got my point across?”

He wants to say something biting, crude, something likely to get his other arm broken, but instead, he nods. Someday, he’s gonna find a way to kill these _things_ and when he does, yellow eyes will be first on his list and he isn’t going to hesitate. That’s not today, though. Today, Sammy’s in the other room waiting and Dean’s wrist is broken.

“Alright, then.” The demon pulls the gloves off, dropping them in the trash before opening the door. For a second, he stops breathing. Sammy’s in that room. If he sees the supposed doctor walking around with yellow eyes, Dean won’t be able to lie himself out of that one. When the demon looks back, motioning for him to follow, his eyes are blue and Dean breathes a barely hidden sigh of relief. He really can’t handle explaining demons to Sammy right now.

John is standing at the front desk, arms over his chest and his face so carefully neutral it’s not. The nurse is sitting on the counter next to him, kicking him in his thigh rhythmically. One of her hands is twisted up in John’s hair, playing with the dark strands in a way that reminds him of… of course, bad touch lady. It’s like some kind of demonic family reunion.

Back to being the good natured doctor, it steps out and lets Dean pass. He goes straight for Sammy, putting himself between his brother and everything else in the room and to hell with what it looks like. Especially to Sammy who stands up, only to be pushed back behind Dean protectively.

“Dean, what’s…?”

“Not now, Sammy.”

“But…”

“Not now.”

Not that it matters, because no one’s paying them any attention. Well, almost. John fishes the keys out of his jacket and tosses them over. “Wait in the car.”

Whatever the demon has to say, John apparently doesn’t want them around to hear it. That in itself makes Dean want to stay, but Sammy’s grip on his arm grounds him. If it was just him, maybe, but it’s not. Plus, as far as Dean’s aware, yellow eyes doesn’t exactly make house calls – riding a doctor or otherwise – and if he’s here now, there’s a good chance John fucked up somehow. Now that he’s really thinking about it, waiting in the car sounds like a really good idea.

As he turns, he hears yellow eyes saying, “Make sure he gets that looked at in six weeks. Attack dog’s no good without its teeth.”

Dean tenses, momentarily thinking about showing the son of a bitch his ‘teeth.’ He’s not a great shot with his left hand, but he’s not bad, either, and John usually keeps a few guns in the car. Sammy’s hand tightens on his arm. Maybe next time. Maybe if he’s lucky they’ll kill each other.

The car is parked a good distance from the door, where there isn’t so much light. The black of it sinks into shadows and makes it less obvious to anyone passing by. Dean still hasn’t figured out why it’s kept the Impala. It’s paid for, maybe, or it’s big enough for all three of them to sleep in, albeit less comfortably then when they were kids. Mostly, he figures John keeps it because it’s less effort then replacing it. Just one more thing Dean doesn’t want to be grateful for, but can’t stop himself.

It’s running up on three in the morning and not even the bugs are up and making noise. As oppressive as the quiet is turning on the car, even just for the radio, is a bad idea. It’s not like Dean knows much about what’s going on in the clinic, but he gets the feeling John fucked up big time. There isn’t really any other reason for the yellow eyed demon to show up like that, not when he’s never bothered with them before. So, John’s probably not going to be in a great mood when he comes out and Dean doesn’t want to piss him off further by stepping on any of his rules.

“Hey, Dean?”

Of course, if it would keep Sammy from asking questions, it might be worth the risk. “Yeah?”

“Who was that?”

They’ve settled on opposite sides of the car, Sammy in the back behind the driver’s side with his legs stretched out to take up nearly the entire seat, Dean in the front passenger so he can get behind the wheel if he has to. He doesn’t think the situation is bad enough that yellow eyes will off John and send someone else to take his place, but if he does, Dean is running. He’s never actually been behind the wheel of a car, but if anyone other then John walks out that door, he’ll figure it out. He’ll start driving and probably never stop.

He might not like John, but he knows John. Even given tonight, he isn’t necessarily any more afraid of the demon then he has been for the last few years. Maybe his wrist got broken and there was the threat of something more, but if John really had intended to force him, then he would have done it. The broken wrist would have been the opening act, or he wouldn’t have bothered with it at all and just used those freaky mind powers of his to shove Dean around while he took what he wanted. Not to say it won’t ever come to that – Dean never puts anything off the table where John is concerned – but he’s not really worried about it.

Sammy on the other hand, probably is. He might not know what happened, but he knows the end result and he’s been nervous and jittery since he woke up, unable to ask questions, because John hasn’t left their side. Until now.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, no, I heard you.”

“So, who was it?”

Dean wasn’t this inquisitive at twelve, but then he already had more answers than he wanted. “I think it was… well, John’s boss, I guess.”

“But… the head of the mob is a doctor in a small clinic in Texarkana?”

Dean can’t stop himself from laughing and once he’s started, he can’t stop, not even when Sammy folds his arms over his chest and glares. He’s not even sure why he’s laughing, because they’re still sitting in a car in the middle of nowhere, his wrist is still broken, John’s probably getting reamed in there for something, and he doesn’t know who or what is going to walk out that door and drive off with them, but the idea of that round faced little doctor being a mob boss is too much. Or maybe he’s just finally cracked.

“It’s not funny, Dean!”

He sucks in air and wipes the corner of his eyes. “No, I know. I do, just… long night. But, no, I don’t think he’s the head of the mob, just the one who gives John his orders and I don’t think he’s a doctor, either.”

“So, then what’s he doing here?”

Dean shrugs, still trying to catch his breath a little. No, actually, he does know. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten about the pendants. “John found something he’s been looking for. I guess he came to get it.”

“Oh.” Sammy frowns. “What did he want with you?”

“He wanted to make sure you were keeping up with your school work.”

Sammy’s frown tightens in annoyance at what he probably thinks is a deflection, but Sammy can believe what he wants right now, as long as it doesn’t even come close to the truth.

For a while the car’s quiet. Dean doesn’t have a watch and he can’t check the time without turning the car on, but he knows it’s been minutes, maybe as many as ten. He doesn’t know, but it feels like it’s been too long.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“What happened?”

It takes him a minute, because he’s thinking about what he’ll do if it isn’t John that walks through the door. He’s thinking about whether he’ll even know it’s not John. What if they use his dad’s body and just stick something else in there? How would he know the difference? So, for a second, he’s not sure what Sam means. Then he is.

“I wasn’t very smart.” He holds the casted hand up in the dim light and looks at the bright yellow reminder shining back at him. He’s gonna need sharpies. Lots of them.

“Did he do it?” There’s something subdued in Sammy’s voice, something that makes Dean look at him. It’s not fear he sees staring back it’s closer to resignation. Like this is something Sammy’s been waiting for.

“It’s not like that.”

“How? He broke your wrist, Dean!”

“Yeah, well, I earned it.”

Sammy sits up straighter, his arms dropping to the leather seats. “How? What could you possibly have…”

“I pulled a knife on him.” That stops him and Sammy’s eyes are huge. “He said something and I… I dunno, I freaked out, it was stupid, and I pulled my knife.”

“Wha…” Sammy licks his lips nervously. “What did he say?”

“Doesn’t matter.” John might have free reign over Dean, but he has orders where Sammy is concerned. Whatever threat he might have insinuated to Dean, it won’t extend to Sammy, so Sammy doesn’t need to know.

The front door opens and it’s John that comes out, shoulders up, jaw tense, moving his mouth like he’s mumbling to himself. Looks like Dean was right about him being in trouble.

John opens the door and slams it shut behind him. He doesn’t look at them as he turns the car on and starts driving. They stop at the apartment just long enough to grab their bags and get back in the car. Sammy stays in the backseat and by the time they come out some ten minutes later, he’s asleep.

The music is down to a background rumble. As they drive, the clock ticks over to four and Dean considers asking where they’re going, but he thinks he knows the answer. This feels like one of those aimless drives. John’s going to pull over when he thinks they’ve driven far enough and he likes the look of where they are.

The yellow cast is glaringly bright every time they drive past a light. Dean picks at the stiff edges and then pulls the sleeve of his flannel shirt down until it covers it. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees John glance over for just a second and it occurs to him that he might not be the only one the cast is meant as a reminder for.

“Did you know?” He rubs his hand self-consciously over the bulging sleeve of his shirt, taking in the pain that makes him a little queasy. “That they were there waiting for us, did you know?”

John’s hands tighten on the steering wheel and his jaw twitches, which is answer enough. Dean hasn’t thought so, not really. Everything about what happened in the clinic said otherwise, but he feels like he needs to hear it. After a few minutes of silence, John says, “No.” Then turns up the radio, startling Sammy awake

Asshole.


	9. Chapter 9

Whatever the yellowed eyed demon had to say, it apparently means John has to play house for a while. There’s only four weeks of school left, anyway, and with Dean’s wrist broken, they can’t afford to draw any extra attention. They keep their heads down – Sammy keeps up his grades, Dean doesn’t get into any fights, and John doesn’t bring home any hookers. It’s a tense month and when school is over and they can pick up and move again, even Sammy is relieved.

They head back down south to Louisiana, back to the shit motel Dean’s so familiar with he no longer minds the smell. Two times a year is a little much for them, but there are benefits here that they can’t get elsewhere. There are doctors that don’t ask questions and no one in that neighborhood is calling the police for any reason. John can drag Dean out into the middle of the street and shoot him and the chances are everyone would mind their own damn business, which is a lot more comforting then it should be.

John gets them a room, drops their bags off on the bed and leaves without a word. Sammy’s already sniffing for the cleanest spot on the bed and laying out on it, television remote in hand. Two minutes later, Dean’s going through the bag, sorting out the dirty clothes to a background of Medical Detectives.

“Do you think any of his are in here?”

Dean stops, pair of dirty underwear handing from between tightly pinched fingers. That’s a really good question. They do their best to cover their tracks and most of the people they killed are either Hunters or people closely associated with them who rarely report anything to law enforcement. Still, it’s not outside the realm of possibility.

“This one’s in St. Petersburg, Florida. We spent time there.”

He looks at the screen and shakes his head. “No, that’s not him. Practice makes perfect, though, and he’s been doing this a long time.”

“Huh.” Sammy turns the volume up and Dean takes the remote away, turning it off.

“That shit’ll rot your brain, help me with this.”

They shove everything into one load and sit back to wait in the Laundromat, Sammy with his book, Dean picking at his cast and trying to get his finger under it enough to scratch at the irritated skin. He can never get far enough. It’s also starting to smell and once he’s gotten his fill of trying to scratch it, he shoves his hand under Sammy’s nose and watches his brother practically fall out of his chair getting away. It’s the little things.

“Shouldn’t you have that changed? A kid in my class last year had a cast and he said they changed it every few weeks.”

“You can bring that up to John next time we sit down for a family dinner.”

Sammy rolls his eyes and goes back to his book. Dean’s trying to come up with something more interesting to do then watch the spin cycle, but fails and ends up falling asleep with his head on Sammy’s shoulder and two fingers shoved up inside the cast to alleviate some of the itch.

It’s late afternoon by the time they drag their two bags of clean clothes back.   Dean tries to think of something to do with the rest of the day but his thoughts are interrupted by the sight of the bulk of large muscles standing next to their motel room door, arms crossed over his broad chest and a lazy smile stretched over his crooked teeth.

“Snagglepuss, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Heard a rumor you were back in town, had to check that shit out for myself.”

“Rumor?”

“He picked up one of my girls down on fifth. You might not want to go in there right now.”

Dean shudders a little and he can feel Sammy doing the same. They can leave the clothes in the car for now.

Joe nods at Dean’s arm hanging useless at his side. “What’d you do?”

“Finally mouthed off one too many times.” It’s strange not having to lie outright, but Joe laughs it off. “Thanks for the heads up.”

He starts to turn around, but Joe stops him. “If you don’t have anything better to do, I was thinking we could get started on those lessons we discussed.”

Dean looks over at Sammy, assessing, before turning his attention back to Joe. They don’t have anywhere to go and Sammy can read wherever Joe takes them just as well as he can if they go hang out in the park. Either way he does this, Sammy’s gonna be there. After yellow eyes showed up, Dean’s more determined than ever not to let Sammy out of his sights. Fucked up wrist, though, that gives him pause. “I don’t know how much good it’ll do.”

Joe shrugs, “We can work with it.”

Sammy doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t say anything against it. That’s good enough for Dean. “Okay, fine.”

 

*****

 

Dean doesn’t really have a lot of expectations. He expects John to keep them alive. He expects Sammy to keep his grades up. He expects everything to blow up in his face at some point. That’s it, really. So, when Joe had first offered to have someone teach Dean how to fight, he didn’t set the bar high. He kept it low to the ground and figured he’d end up getting his ass kicked by someone in a back alley, but if he learned something he didn’t know before, it’s worth it.

When he follows Joe, a sour faced Sammy in tow, they don’t go to a back alley. They walk into an honest to god gym. It isn’t fancy, in fact, it’s pretty hole in the wall, but it has punching bags and a little roped off arena and free weights and things Dean doesn’t even have names for.

Joe starts off across the room and Dean follows at his heels, Sammy behind him wide eyed and open mouthed. There are men paired off all around the place. They’re big, beefy, fighter types, some look like they could probably crush Dean’s head in their hand. Just one hand, they wouldn’t even need two and Dean’s seriously considering backing the fuck out when Joe stops in front a tall, sinewy looking guy wiping down a stack of mats.

“Tyler, got somethin’ for ya.”

The guy, Tyler, turns and he’s got a pleasant enough smile as he sets down the rag and sweeps eyes over Dean who’s trying to stand tall and firm despite the reservations that are pinging around in his head. He isn’t a big guy, but he’s at least six feet, which puts him a few inches over Dean, but shorter then Joe. Somehow, he still manages to look imposing.

Tyler holds a hand out past Joe’s arm and Dean takes it without allowing himself to hesitate. If he can look a demon in the eye every morning, he can shake some stranger’s hand. “Hey, I’m Tyler. Joe tells me you want to learn how to fight?”

“Need to.” Because it feels like an important distinction.

“Really?” Tyler raises one eyebrow.

“Yeah, he does.” Joe butts in, which Dean is okay with, because he isn’t about to explain himself to some stranger he just met. “His old man is John.”

That, however, he is not okay with. Except Tyler nods and looks back at Dean with something like understanding, even if he doesn’t understand anything. “Right, okay.”

“Come on, Sammy, let’s get out of their way.” Joe has the gall to put his arm around Sammy and steer Dean’s brother away and over to a set of benches not too far away. Sammy pulls away, but follows and sits himself well out of arm’s length. It might be funny if Dean didn’t suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to shoot something. He’ll have to settle for punching right now, though.

Tyler takes a second to talk to someone on the other side of the arena taking up the middle of the room and comes back pulling on open palm gloves. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

They take it away from the cleaning station, but not so far that Dean can’t see Sammy still sitting on the bench, ignoring the book he’s brought with him in favor of frowning and darting his eyes around the room, then back to Dean, then Joe, then back around the room. The kid’s gonna pull an eye muscle.

“Hey!” He looks back and Tyler has his hands up, “Eyes front. Give me your best shot.”

Half an hour later, Dean’s arm is on fire and his hand’s stiff and sore from beating against the gloves. Tyler’s not even winded. There’s been some correction – aim with his first two knuckles, turn his hip into the swing, wrist straight. The best he’d gotten from John was not to tuck his thumb in unless he wanted it broken. So, even if Tyler doesn’t look phased, he knows it’s helped.

He’s kept watch of Sammy out of the corner of his eye the whole time. Joe hasn’t done anything, not that he expected he would. Snagglepuss is a lot of things, but a pedophile isn’t one of them. It’s just that Dean doesn’t like not having his brother right there, especially in a strange environment with people he doesn’t know. It’s like the first day at a new school all over again.

He breathes in deep and accepts the bottle of water Tyler offers him. “Not bad, kid.”

“I’m not a kid.” Because fuck him.

“Yeah, you are, but like I said, not bad. You take direction well.”

He isn’t sure if that’s a compliment. It sounds like one, but John’s said stuff like that before and it sure as hell wasn’t a compliment then. “Thanks?”

Tyler’s laugh is more of a muted chuckle into the water bottle and he finishes half of it before continuing. “You got time to come by tomorrow?”

It’s summer, he’s got nothing but time. He’ll probably have to find somewhere to stash Sammy, though. As much as he hates having his brother out of site, this isn’t one of those reputable upscale gyms. It isn’t filled with people paying good money for a safe, clean environment. There aren’t security cameras or membership cards and anyone can walk in or walk out. He’d rather have his brother somewhere a little less… here.

“Sure.”

“I take lunch at two, don’t be late.”

Dean takes it as a dismissal and drags Sammy out while Joe is talking to Tyler. He doesn’t slow down until they’re a block away and no one’s come out after them. When he slows, Sammy catches up to him and keeps pace, head tilted to watch Dean. “I don’t like him.”

“Who, Tyler?”

“No, Pimp Joe.”

“Hey, now,” he puts a hand on Sammy’s head and grins at the sour look he gets, “show the man some respect. It’s Snagglepuss. Like that cartoon cat you used to love.”

Sammy ducks out from under Dean’s hand. “I don’t care what he calls himself, I still don’t like him.”

“Yeah, well, what do you know?” Not a lot and Dean taps down on the guilt that says it’s his fault. Sammy isn’t exactly the best judge of character because he hasn’t been exposed to many characters he can fairly judge.

“More than you think.” There’s a pause as they pass a group of teenagers, then, “John won’t like it.”

“Name something John does like.”

“Whores?” And Dean cracks up, because the old lady in an oversized hat hears it and does a double take, staring with wide, scandalized eyes.

He wraps his arms around Sammy’s shoulders and pulls him into an awkward hug while they walk. He still has to decide what to do about tomorrow and where to take Sammy, but for now, they need to get back to the apartment and see about dinner.

 

*****

 

John isn’t happy with them for being gone so long, but Dean says they were at the library and he doesn’t question it. He doesn’t have a reason to. Most towns have a library, Sammy loves books, and Dean loves to spoil Sammy where he can. They never take out library cards, but sometimes Dean still brings a book home. He isn’t proud of it, but they donate it later and he figures it probably evens out somewhere. If it doesn’t, he’s done worse.

A hand on the back of his neck stops him from following Sammy into the room and he rolls his eyes, turning to face John with a carefully controlled expression of neutrality. He’s never liked John touching him and he’s been particularly volatile towards it since the broken wrist. The bathroom door shuts behind Sammy.

“I’ve got a job.”

“How long?”

“Few days. A week at most.”

Great, that’s just… actually, no, that’s pretty much perfect. If John isn’t there, Dean doesn’t have to worry about him finding out. Even just a few days gives Dean enough time to figure out the ins and outs of how to get this around him. Not that he’s entirely sure why he’s bothering, except John is a controlling son of a bitch and sometimes it feels good to know he’s getting one over on him.

The hand tightens to just shy of painful, before letting go. “The rooms paid up for the next two weeks. Keep your head down and get comfortable. We’re staying here until the cast comes off.”

He’d figured as much, but having it confirmed is a mixed blessing. It gives him time to actually learn something substantial from Tyler, but the room is barely big enough for the two beds and the dresser occupying it. There’s no table. It doesn’t even have a mini-fridge or a microwave and the bathroom door doesn’t lock. Still isn’t the worst place they’ve stayed, though, so he doesn’t argue.

John hands him a solid wad of cash that Dean doesn’t want to know the origins of, before walking out the door. There’s gotta be several hundred, which will more then take care of them between now and then.

Sammy comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later and digs the remote out of the bedside drawer, flipping channels until it lands on something he finds interesting - some forensic crime investigative bullshit. Dean throws himself on the bed next to his brother, grabbing the remote away from him and changing the channel to… hm, Springer.

“Seriously?” Sammy makes a grab for the remote, which Dean promptly holds to the side and out of reach. “Dean, give it.”

He has to roll over to avoid Sammy’s arms and gets a knee in his back when Sammy counters by crawling over him. “Ow, motherfucker! That was my kidney.”

“Then give me the remote! That shit’s gonna rot my brain.”

“Watch your language!”

“Hypocrite!”

Dean manages to fling himself out from under Sammy and half off the bed, shoving the remote under it before he rolls over and grabs Sammy as he’s trying to get off to retrieve it. It’s a short wrestling match and it ends with Sammy sitting trapped between Dean’s legs, his back to his brother’s chest and Dean’s arm wrapped around his entire body so he has no choice but to sit there, facing the television while the crowd cheers at some woman throwing a chair at someone who apparently slept with her husband.

After a minute, Sammy is shifting to get comfortable rather then get away and Dean relaxes his arms until they’re just sitting there, watching some guy try to lie his way out of having not one, but two affairs and at least two baby mamas. Sammy shifts up, settled down, then wiggles his back against Dean and suddenly, Dean’s very aware that his pants are too tight in all the wrong places.

“Hey, I’mma take a shower.”

Sammy dives for the remote the minute Dean’s out from under him, changing the channel back to his forensic science show and Dean catches the barest hint of a grin from behind shaggy brown hair. He stops just inside the door and peers back out, but the grin is gone. Sammy is leaning forward on the bed, elbows on his knees, lower lip pulled between his teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Shaking his head, he closes the door behind himself. He really needs to get his mind out of the gutter. Actually, he needs to get laid, but since that isn’t happening anytime soon, he’ll have to stick to awkward masturbation with his left hand.

 

*****

 

There are small, finger bruises at the base of Dean’s neck the next day. It isn’t uncommon, but he’s more aware of them than normal, because Tyler’s eyes keep slipping to them, to his wrist, and then back up to Dean’s scowl. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask what happened, which makes it worse, because that means he thinks he already knows.

If Dean knew he wouldn’t rat on them to CPS, it might be different. He has Joe’s word that this guy’s okay, but he has intuition telling him otherwise. That internal part of him that can almost always tell when an adult is getting too nosey is going off like a siren in the back of his head and he can’t ignore it, not with John out of town and the lesson smelly and stiff around his arm.

He dropped Sammy at the library before coming over to the gym and he feels like one raw nerve over it that Tyler is dancing all over every time his eyes drop to the inked in cast.

“Would you just ask already?!”

Tyler drops the arm he had up, ready to take Dean’s kick to the thick red padding. “Ask what?”

“About my arm.” He holds the offending appendage up for emphasis. “You’ve been staring all day, so just ask.”

“Don’t need to. Joe told me John did it.”

“Yeah, well, did he tell you I deserved it?”

He isn’t sure why that’s so important, but it is.

“I’m guessing you always deserve it. Kick.”

He puts enough force behind it to drive Tyler back a step.

“It’s not like that. That’s the first he’s hurt me.” Okay, second time, but he isn’t correcting himself now.

“There’s always a first time. Kick.”

Yeah, there is, but Dean isn’t up for a lecture on how abuse escalates. Besides, he’s not really sure it works that way with demons. The clock on the back wall says they’ve been at it for nearly an hour and he kicks out, the burn warring between painful and satisfying.

“We almost done?”

Tyler looks back at the clock and nods, un-strapping the pad. “Tomorrow, I’m here early, so I’ll see you at eleven.”

“I get a choice in that?”

“You don’t have to come. I don’t exactly enjoy having a protein shake for lunch.”

Dean frowns, but doesn’t say anything as he towels off and heads out the front door. It isn’t that he dislikes Tyler. Intuition aside, he doesn’t know him well enough to go either way, but he does know Joe, and given the kind of people the pimp associates with, his customers tend to be among the most moral of the bunch. Considering John is one of those customers, Dean doesn’t have high expectations for Tyler.

Sammy’s curled up with a copy of some classic he swears is on his summer reading list from their last school. When Dean points out there’s a good chance it won’t be on the list of whatever school they end up in next year, Sammy gives him the middle finger and Dean smacks the back of his head softly.

It feels good, easy and relaxed and it won’t last, but he’s going to enjoy it while he can.

 

****

 

The cast comes off five days later and even John has the courtesy to look sick at the smell coming from under the thing when it cracks open. There’s a disapproving look thrown at him from the doctor, but nothing coming close to words, because the guy is paid good money to fix it, no questions asked.

Sammy gags a little and stands up to walk out of the tiny room they’re crowded into, but John’s hand on his shoulder shoves him back down into the waiting chair and he scowls before curling his legs up and pressing the hem of his t-shirt against his nose and mouth. There’s been a subtle change in John’s attitude toward Sammy. He isn’t sitting him down for heart felt conversation about life and love or, well, death and dismemberment in John’s case, but he is keeping a closer eye on him. Not that Sammy’s noticed, because he’s too busy ignoring the demon to notice the way he stares at him sometimes or how, like now, he keeps his hand on Sammy’s shoulder when he would have otherwise pulled it back.

He can’t decide if John’s taking an interest, or if it has something to do with whatever Yellow Eyes said back in Texarkana, but whatever the reason, Dean doesn’t like it. Then the doctor opens the cast the rest of the way and he stops thinking about it altogether and concentrates on not throwing up, because he’s smelled some pretty nasty shit, but when he’d been digging his fingers in there and holding them under Sammy’s nose to annoy him, he hadn’t realized exactly how vile it was.

The doctor doesn’t look all that impressed as he presses fingers into strategic point of Dean’s arm and wrist, flexing and twisting the hand as he gauges the extent of repair. “It’s hard to be sure without an x-ray,” he gives John another glance, but the demon isn’t even looking at him, so he continues, “but I’d say you’re healing up fine. Probably another few weeks in a brace, just to be sure.”

A brace means he isn’t a hundred percent, but it’s better than a cast. At least he can take a brace off for showers. The doctor pulls off his gloves and motions to the door. “There’s a sink across the hall. Go wash your arm off.”

John stiffens, but doesn’t say anything as Dean makes his way the short distance between the examination room and the sink. He can see the pitch black of the parking lot through a large window around the corner. According to John the doctor was recommended to him by a ‘friend.’ For enough money, he does off book, after hours work and John, apparently, had enough money. Not that Dean understands what all the fuss is about. Kids get hurt all the time. Teenagers are known for doing stupid things when adults aren’t watching and he doesn’t see why John’s so insistent they go off books for this. Sure, the demon doesn’t exactly have great ‘people skills,’ but plenty of parents are anti-social and as long as he doesn’t shoot anyone, Dean’s pretty sure a doctor would buy ‘I fell off my bike,’ just as easily as the teachers at the last school had.

Not his call, though, and he could ask, but in the end, it doesn’t even really matter. John wants to spend a few hundred to keep it out of some doctor’s file history, fine.

He finishes up, dries the arm thoroughly and twists and flexes it experimentally. There’s still a slight twinge of pain if he pushes too far in any direction, but it isn’t sharp or gut wrenching. What is gut wrenching is the way John still has his hand on Sammy’s shoulder when Dean gets back to the room and the way Sammy doesn’t seem bothered by it. He’s noticed, because he’s looking at John like maybe he’s grown a second head, but he isn’t stiff or pulling away. John is busy watching Dean and the doctor isn’t paying attention to any of them, probably because it’s nearly midnight and he’s wearing black pajama pants with purple rubber ducks on them under his white coat.

The brace is black and restrictive, but Dean’s pretty sure that if push comes to shove, he can fire a gun with the hand. Not that he intends to, but Dean doesn’t intend a lot of things and shit still manages to happen. They leave a few minutes later with a few sheets of paper outlining exercises Dean can use to strengthen the arm over the next few months.

No one talks on the drive back to the room. John orders a pizza before leaving again. He doesn’t say he’s coming back, but he doesn’t leave extra money, doesn’t even check the funds, so Dean figures he’s out doing… something, it doesn’t matter. They eat pizza, watch television, and Sammy falls asleep with his head on Dean’s shoulder, still wearing his shoes.

Half an hour later, the kid starts drooling and Dean decides he can make his escape. It takes five minutes of shifting and sliding before Sammy’s head is on the pillow and Dean can slip out the door. He doesn’t go far. In fact, he stands just on the other side, waiting. John doesn’t come back until just before dawn and he doesn’t look surprised to see Dean waiting by the door for him.

“How’s the wrist?”

Dean shrugs, “What’s with Sammy?”

John smirks, sitting on the hood of the car with his arms crossed over his chest. “What are you…?”

“Don’t.”

Don’t pretend he doesn’t know what Dean’s talking about. Don’t try and brush it to the side or make him drop it, because he’s not going to and John seems to realize that.

“Fine.” He unwinds his arms, presses his palms flat against the car and leans forward. “The little bitch tattled and my boss came all the way up here to remind me of my priorities. If I don’t start paying your little brother the same attention I’ve paid you, he’ll have me replaced.”

Dean stares, not sure what to say and John rolls his eyes, sags back a little in thought. “Probably send her, too. She always was his favorite.”

“Bad Touch Lady?” Demons are few and far between as far as Dean knows and they don’t generally work together. Besides, she looked really smug back at the clinic.

The demon’s mouth twitches in what could arguably be considered a smile. “Yeah, Bad Touch Lady. How’d you like that, Dean? Have her wearing Daddy’s meat suit, up in Sammy’s face all day? All night? She likes him, you know. Thinks he’s real cute when he’s flustered. How would you explain that? Or would you? You seem to like keeping Sammy in the dark.”

He flushes in anger and embarrassment, because okay, yeah, he kind of does, but not for the reasons John insinuates. He likes standing between his brother and the truth. He likes keeping what little innocence Sammy has intact. John’s right, though. He won’t be able to explain that any other way and he can’t be there twenty-four seven. Hell, if he tries, she’d probably just get rid of him.

“So, what does that mean?”

“It means no more baby sitters. If I have a job that needs you, Sammy comes with.”

Dean wants to say no, but… He deflates against the door and stares at the ground while he tries to think of a way around it, except there really isn’t one. Just because they have to take Sammy, though, doesn’t mean Sammy has to be part of it.

Finally, he nods. “Yeah, okay, but he doesn’t get his hands bloody.”

It’s said like he’s putting his foot down, but the truth is it’s a desperate plea and he’s relieved when John shrugs and says, “For now.”

He can work with that.


	10. Chapter 10

John hangs around for a few days before disappearing again. He spends most of the time making calls and watching Sammy, gauging the kid. At first, Sammy doesn’t seem to notice, but then Dean started catching him glancing away from his book nervously before pulling the pages closer to practically burry his face in it or excuse himself to go sit in the bathroom and read.

When John finally disappears, Sammy waits a full five minutes after the sound of the car has receded into the distance before pouncing. “What the hell is that about?”

Dean has a moment of solidarity with John, which is kind of fucked up, but he has the desperate urge to pretend he doesn’t have a clue what Sammy’s talking about. Unfortunately, just like when John tries it with him, it won’t fly with his brother. The bigger problem is how to word it without freaking Sammy out.

Actually, there probably isn’t one. Any way he says this is going to sound exactly like what it is. “He doesn’t want to leave you with baby sitters anymore.”

“Okay, but that doesn’t…”

“And he doesn’t want to leave you alone.”

Sammy takes a moment. Dean can see the wheels turning in the kid’s head before he looks up again, eyes a little wider. “He… he wants me to come with?”

Dean nods, waits while Sammy thinks about that and finally come up with, “To do what?”

“For now? Nothing. Just got a bee up his ass about keeping an eye on you.”

“Yeah? And who put the bee there?” Because Sammy is smart. Smarter than a lot of kids his age and he has to know John wouldn’t be doing this on his own – not after thirteen years of ignoring him. Dean doesn’t answer, just settles into the mattress and turns the volume up on the television. He expects Sammy to do the same, like always. When Sammy starts pushing to far, Dean ignores the question and Sammy lets it go, because that’s what they do. Instead, his brother stands up off the bed, fists clenched tight.

“No, not this time, Dean. You can’t just keep ignoring things you don’t want to talk about.”

Well, that’s new. Not that he hasn’t known it was coming. Sammy’s thirteen and he’s starting to show the stubborn recklessness that comes with being a teenager – except they can’t afford reckless and stubborn isn’t going to get them anywhere. Well, it’ll get John pissed, but that isn’t good for anyone in a five mile radius.

“I know he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me, Dean. So, if he’s insisting I come along, it’s because of you. Something _you_ said.”

Wait, what now?

“I’m not a little kid anymore. I’m thirteen. When you were thirteen, you were taking care of both of us for weeks at a time. I think I can manage on my own for a couple of days.”

It’s the most obvious answer, now that Sammy’s pointed it out, but Dean still hesitates. It’s easier when he can blame it on John or the world, harder when he has to take the brunt of it and just let Sammy be angry with him for a while, but it’s a better excuse than any of the other ones currently rolling around Dean’s head, so he latches onto it.

“When I was thirteen I could hit a moving squirrel from thirty feet away. How’s your aim?”

“That’s not fair and you know it.”

“Besides, aren’t you always asking what it is I do? Now you’ll know.”

That shuts the kid right up. Sammy’s mouth clamps shut and he sucks in a sharp breath and holds it. They both know what Dean does, even if they don’t say it out loud. Sammy knows the target practice isn’t just for show and all those fancy knife skills Dean’s honed aren’t about self-defense. So, yeah, they both know and maybe Sammy asks, but that doesn’t mean he wants to hear it. If he really did, he would have pushed the point before now. It’s a low blow on Dean’s part, a statement specifically aimed at making Sammy shut the hell up and it works.

There’s a tense few minutes with Dean staring resolutely at the television while Sammy stares at him, trying to decide whether it’s worth it to continue this line of argument. Slowly, his shoulders lose their tension and he sits on the bed, knees pulled up and arms crossed over his chest defiantly.

“It’s still not fair.”

Dean shrugs, “Doesn’t have to be.”

And if Sammy falls asleep with his back to Dean that night, it’s for his own damn good.

 

 

*****

 

 

Sammy stays angry at Dean for a whole two days. It’s the longest fight they’ve ever had and Dean hates it, but he can’t back down. Better for Sammy to be mad at him than mad at John. Not that John’s ever done anything to Sammy, not even when the kid ranted for thirty minutes in the back of the car about how he was tired of fast food and wanted to eat something real for a change and real didn’t include a diner. Real food came out of an oven, not a microwave and it wasn’t saturated in enough fat to soak through a paper plate. Dean had no idea where Sammy got his unrealistic expectations of food, but it’s gotta stop. Dean likes diners. Onion rings are like little bites of heaven that allow him the revenge of stinking up the car a few hours later.

That aside, though, if Sammy ever really went at it with John, there’s no telling what the demon would do. He’d said it before, his job isn’t to keep Sammy happy, it’s to keep him. How he does that is up to him. So, if Sammy wants to be mad at someone, it has to be Dean.

When John finally steps out again – just a few days more and then they’ll be moving again – Dean drops a slightly less pissed off Sammy at the library and heads over to Tyler. He isn’t at the gym, but the guy working the front barely got Dean’s name before handing over Tyler’s home address. It’s only a few blocks away and Tyler answers the door wearing sweatpants, no shirt, and eyes barely blinking open as he scrubs a hand over short clipped hair.

“Hey, kid, where you been?”

He isn’t sure if it’s a rhetorical question or if Tyler is really interested in knowing where he’s been, so he goes with, “The guys at the gym said I could find you here.”

Tyler chuckles, blinking up at the bare bulb hanging in front of his door. “Looks like.” Then he yawns and stretches his arms back, one after the other and dear god, he’s ripped. Not that Dean didn’t known there was muscle under the flimsy t-shirts and light weight jackets the guy wore at the gym, he just hadn’t realized exactly how well defined that muscle was. It cuts lines in his arms, around the shoulders, his chest and abdomen. It pulls the skin and muscle tight around hip bones that press out over the low hang of the sweats.

Rolling his neck, Tyler steps aside, arm out, “Have a seat. I gotta pee.”

Dean stands where he is for a full five seconds while Tyler disappears through a door that presumably leads into a bathroom. With the exception of when he’s helping John and the daycares they used to go to, he hasn’t ever been invited into someone’s home before. Never been in a position where that was likely to happen, because it was always school to home and sometimes they’d stop and pick up something to eat or go hang out at the library or a park, but they certainly didn’t go to people’s houses.

The toilet flushes and he hurries in, closing the door behind him softly just before Tyler comes out again.

“So, John leave town finally?”

“Yeah.” He tries not to watch while Tyler grabs the pillows and blankets off the sofa and shoves them into the trunk that serves as a coffee table. It’s a sparsely furnished room. No table, no bed, just a sofa, coffee table and television set on plastic crates. Mostly open carpet with few obstacles in a fight.

“So, let me ask you something.”

Dean nods absently, still taking in the apartment for the most part – there’s a bat in the far corner that he could use as a weapon if he needed. No back door, but a small window on the wall near where the bat is. It probably says something that his first instinct when someone invites him in is to assess his surroundings for escape routes and possible weapons, but he also has a small caliber gun strapped to his ankle, so he isn’t thinking too much about that.

“Would he really have a problem with you training at the gym?” Dean’s head snaps over and up, making eye contact with Tyler for the first time since the door opened. He doesn’t look anything more than curious.

“I don’t know, maybe. Probably. He’s weird about stuff like that and I don’t take chances.”

“Huh. See, that’s what Joe said. I just figured he was exaggerating. You know Joe.” No, he doesn’t, but he nods anyway. “So, what brings you here?”

“We’re leaving in a few days. Figured I could get some practice in before he gets back.”

“I don’t work today, but the gym closes at nine and they don’t mind me using it after hours.”

That complicates things. The library would be closed. He doesn’t trust Tyler enough to bring Sammy with him. John could come back early, so their room is out. There’s isn’t much open, except the porn store. Well, that and… the dollar theatre, which is perfect, because Sammy’s been bugging him about some movie that Dean has no interest in sitting through.

“What time do you want me there?”

 

 

*****

 

 

He throws in popcorn and a soda and Sammy doesn’t argue too loudly about being dropped in a movie theatre for an hour and a half. Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything to Sammy’s disgruntled attitude at being left behind when not twenty four hours ago he was bitching about being dragged with. It’s a teenage thing. Dean isn’t sure if he suffered from the affliction, but he doesn’t think so. John wouldn’t have put up with it.

The gym is a good fifteen minute walk from the theatre. The parking lot is dark and it occurs to him for the first time that there aren’t really any windows to let the light in. He shakes his head and forces the thought down. Ever since Green, he’s been one short step away from paranoid about escape routes. It doesn’t help that even if he’s reached something close to a balance with the demon, having John around makes him feel trapped. He can’t breathe half the time. Just thinking about it makes him feel too confined.

Without giving himself time to think too much about it, he knocks and Tyler opens the door a moment later, fine sheen of sweat on his forehead saying he’s already warmed up. He’s smiling wide and just a little breathy as he says, “You’re early.”

“By two minutes.”

“Come on in.”

He turns his back to Dean, just like in his apartment and just like then, Dean’s struck with a feeling of unease. He pushes it aside. Maybe it’s something, but more likely, it’s late and he’s in a building that’s otherwise closed with someone he only kind of knows. In fact, aside from his name, Dean actually knows nothing about him.

“So.” Tyler doesn’t look back as he makes his way to the other side of the gym, Dean close behind. “How do you know Joe?”

“My old man used to run drugs for him, back when he was dealing.” Tyler tosses his towel onto a bench. “Got my dad killed.”

“I’m sor… ry.” Dean’s apology stutters as Tyler pulls his shirt off. His back is as defined as his front, the sharp contour of muscle and knobs of his spine standing out sharp again his dark skin. “I, uh… yeah, I’m sorry to hear about your dad.”

Tyler looks back over his shoulder, grinning. “Don’t be. He was an asshole. I wouldn’t have made it out of my teens if he’d been around. Used to beat the shit out of me and my mom. When I got old enough, Joe offered me a job.”

“Here?”

“No, this barely pays my rent. Joe pays me to watch the girls. No one gets a freebee, no one skims off the top. If they do, I deal with them.” Tyler nods at Dean. “You gonna take the jacket off?”

Dean flushes a little, suddenly realizing he’s been caught up watching Tyler’s chest and abs and from the guy’s raised eyebrows, it hasn’t gone unnoticed. He doesn’t bother saying anything as he shucks the leather jacket and carefully sets it over a weight machine not far away before toeing off his shoes.

The jacket had been his dad’s. John had discarded it for a newer one a few months after his possession and Dean had kept it, shoved in the bottom of his duffle bag until he’d finally gotten big enough to wear it. Actually, it’s still a little big, but he’s almost there.

Tyler looks him over. “We can’t turn on the AC, so you might want to lose the shirt.”

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” The arm pads come up and Tyler comments that Dean’s form is improving – he’s getting more power behind his punches. Dean can’t stop staring at the tight lines of Tyler’s shoulder and arm. It’s attractive, subjectively. Or maybe more than a little subjectively, because it’s not like looking is getting Dean hard or anything, but it’s making the pit of his stomach tighten uncomfortably, like he could get hard if he really thought about it, but he isn’t. In fact, he’s actively not thinking about it, because the last thing he needs is a boner.

He works up a good sweat within minutes, because Tyler isn’t lying about there being no AC. When Tyler finally puts down the arm pads, he gives up and pulls the t-shirt over his head. It doesn’t escape his notice that Tyler takes a second to look him over. Dean’s never been one to be self-conscious – if anything, he gravitates to extremes, from not caring what anyone thinks of him to knowing he’s got the ‘pretty boy’ thing in his pocket when he needs it.

Tyler, though, isn’t some girl from his high school and Dean does his best to play it off like he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, or maybe both. He also knows he fails when Tyler snickers.

He takes a second for a silent, screw you before asking, “So, what now?”

Because they usually work for twenty to thirty minutes at least and it’s barely been ten.

“Now, you show me what you’ve got.”

“I what?”

“Your forms improving, you’re getting some power behind the hits, but you said a few days, right?” He nods. “Then we should move on to something a little more… practical. Show me what John’s taught you so far.”

Practical, which means actual fighting and Dean isn’t sure how to explain what John’s taught him, but when Tyler says ‘show me what you’ve got’ he highly doubts the guy expects Dean to kick him in the balls and run, because that’s the basis of what John taught him. Dean goes in, clears the path for John and gets out of his way. That doesn’t exactly require a lot of skill and it’d worked just fine until their last job.

“I really don’t think that’s…” He’s cut off by a fist hitting the side of his face hard enough to make him see bursts of white behind his eyes. “Son of a bitch!”

He backs up a few steps and blinks to clear the white haze from his vision. Tyler hasn’t moved. His fists are down, but clenched, like he’s waiting.

“I wasn’t fucking ready.”

Tyler doesn’t say anything. Dean tightens his own hands into fists. The side of his face is throbbing. He throws a punch out and Tyler knocks it aside with one hand, his other catching Dean’s face again. Dean doesn’t mind the pain so much but they’re supposed to be keeping this thing they’re doing secret. Dean thought Tyler understood that and fucking up Dean’s face is going to get noticed. The same fist catches him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and he falls to his knees, panting at the floor.

“You aren’t always going to be ready for it, Dean, but I did warn you.”

He’d say fuck you if he could breathe and if Tyler wasn’t right. Through the fall of hair hanging over his downturned face, something catches his eye and he lashes out, grabs Tyler’s ankle and yanks. It doesn’t knock him flat like Dean wants, but it does make him stumble back enough that Dean feels safe staggering to his feet, taking a few steps back himself to widen the gap.

Tyler’s smiling, watching Dean with a lazy tension that says he’s ready to strike, but not in any hurry. “Second mistake, kid. Don’t back down. All that does is give them time to regroup and get ready for your next attack. You get the advantage, you push it, especially if they’re bigger then you.”

Okay, he can do this. He’s not going to win, there’s no way in hell he’s going to win, but he can sure as hell put up a good fight.

 

 

*****

 

 

“Dude, your face!”

“Shut the fuck up, Sammy.”

“No, seriously. Have you seen it?”

No, he hasn’t, but he can feel it. He can also feel his bruised ribs, sore abdomen, split knuckles and he stubbed his toe on the way over to put his shoes on.

Sammy stares openly at him while they walk to the bus stop, eyes wide and mouth gaping. Dean doesn’t look back, but he can see it in his peripheral, because it hurts too much to walk fast enough to get away.

While they wait for the bus, Sammy takes the opportunity to state the obvious. “John’s gonna be pissed.”

“No shit.”

This town, these people, they won’t say anything and no one’s calling CPS – hell, they probably won’t even look twice – but John said they were moving soon and whether this is going to be a problem depends on where he needs to be and what he needs to do. Or if John’s in a bad mood when he gets home; it could be a problem then, too.

Either way, Dean doesn’t see a point in worrying about it right now. He’ll say he got in a fight, pissed off the wrong person, fell down the stairs, something, and John won’t believe him. It’s like he knows when Dean is lying. Sometimes he isn’t sure why he bothers, except maybe one day he’ll get good enough at it and he’ll never know if he doesn’t keep trying.

“Why did…”

“Not now, Sammy.”

He ignores Sammy mimicking him off to the side as the bus pulls up. It’s after eleven and the bus is mostly empty. They sit in the back, as far away from the only other passenger and driver as they can. He kind of expects it, but it still annoys him when Sammy’s on him as soon as the bus starts moving down the street.

“It’s always not now. Eventually, you have to start telling me things. I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not stupid.” Fuck stupid, the kid is a genius, but he isn’t what Dean would call street smart. If he was, he’d know when to keep his damn mouth shut. “Look, he can’t teach me how to fight if we don’t actually, you know, fight.”

Sammy tightens his lips and narrows his eyes in an expression he’s been perfecting the last few years – ever since he grew out of being complacent. “That’s not teaching you. _That_ is beating the shit out of you.”

The lady up front looks back, but thankfully, Sammy’s dropping it, turning to look out the window instead of at Dean. After a minute, the lady turns back around and Dean leans over to Sammy, his voice low and teasing. “Language, Sammy.”

Sammy huffs out a laugh and sends a playful elbow back into Dean’s bruised ribs. “Hypocrite.”

 

*****

 

 

Dean really _is_ a hypocrite and he knows it. He knows that he demands answers from John and expects to get them, but when Sammy asks questions, he’ll ignore, dodge, and lie his way around half truths to keep from giving a straight one. He knows that when Sammy gets into one of his slumps and says he doesn’t see the point in doing whatever assignment his teacher gave him because neither of them know if they’ll even be there long enough for him to turn it in, Dean forces him to sit down and do it, yet he’s got a calendar where he’s counting down the days until he can drop out without pissing John off.

So, yeah, he’s a hypocrite and he’s okay with that.

The next morning, his face is stiff, bruised, but not nearly as swollen as it had been the night before. He’s gotten in enough fights to know when someone’s pulling their punches, which means he’ll have some pretty colors going for a while, but it won’t last long and there’s nothing broken.

Dean runs across the street to the convenience store and gets milk and a multi-pack of cereal and they spend the morning watching cartoons and eating out of the plastic bowls Dean carries around in his duffle, just in case. Sammy goes to town on Raisin Bran, Cheerios and Corn Flakes and Dean uses Frosted Flakes, Froot Loops, and Corn Pops to eat his weight in sugar.

He remembers a time when he would have been the one choking on raisins because Sammy wanted the Froot Loops and Dean would take one for the team to see his brother smile. He doesn’t remember exactly when his little brother grew up enough to care about what he ate and that’s a shame, because it’s like he turned around one day and realized he hadn’t had to eat raisins in months and Sammy didn’t want anything to do with the brightly colored artificial flavors that had been a staple for as long as Dean could remember. He especially hates it, because it makes him wonder what else is changing that he isn’t seeing and when it’s going to bite him in the ass.

Sammy sets the last bowl aside finishing the milk in a long chug ending in a fairly impressive burp. “So, you going to the gym today?”

“Yeah. You want to hit the library?”

“I have a choice?”

“You want one?”

“Not really.”

He doesn’t even sound mad about it, just disappointed. Dean’s going to make it up to him. Next town, they’re doing something cultural – like a museum. Sammy loves that shit.

The librarian is an elderly lady with a permanent frown on her face – except when she’s talking to Sammy. She’s got a soft spot for those puppy dog eyes and shy dimples. She gives him candy and tells him he’s too skinny or that he needs a haircut. One time, she even gave him some clothes that she swore her grandson had outgrown, though Dean’s pretty sure they were new. When they’re there, she keeps an extra close eye on Sammy and on anyone he talks to, especially the adults.

It bothers Dean sometimes. It’s like she thinks he isn’t doing a good enough job keeping after his brother. When she says Sammy’s skinny, he hears that Dean isn’t giving the kid enough to eat, never mind that Sammy eats twice his weight in food at nearly every sitting, but never seems to actually gain anything. The clothes make him feel like Sammy’s running around in rags, which he isn’t. They may be second hand, but Dean takes his time making sure there aren’t any holes, stains, or missing buttons on any of it. As for Sammy going off with a stranger, Dean raised him better than that. If a stranger tried to take off with him, he’d end up with an inverted knee cap and by the time whoever it was dragged himself back up, Sammy would be halfway across the city.

Oh, and fuck her on the haircut, because his little brother looks adorable with that shaggy mess hanging in his eyes and Dean may tease him about cutting it, but he doesn’t really mean it. It’s just that teasing Sammy is one of the few things keeping Dean sane sometimes.

Still, if he can’t watch Sammy, there’s something reassuring about knowing someone who isn’t possessed by the inky black soul of a demon is, even if he doesn’t know her name. He gives her a nod as he passes and she gives him the kind of glower she reserves for when she’s caught him sneaking a pocket pie in the back corner of the library. Dean has absolutely no idea what he’s done to deserve that, but it doesn’t matter. He has somewhere to be.

Despite what it had looked like to Sammy, the point of the previous night had not been to simply kick Dean’s ass – Tyler had assured him of that, adding that getting to rough him up a bit was more of a bonus.

The second he walks in the gym, Tyler’s on him and it takes serious restraint not to pull away when the man runs a finger feather light over the edge of his purpling cheek. “Man, you sure do color up pretty.”

He does back away then, swats Tyler’s hand, too, for good measure.

Tyler chuckles at his soured expression, but drops the hand. “So, you didn’t do so bad last night.”

“My face says otherwise.” The lecture he’s gonna get from John about picking fights he can’t win says otherwise.

“No, really.” Tyler motions for him to follow to the other side of the gym, away from everyone else. “It’s not your fault John taught you how to fight like a whore.”

“What?!” Dean’s a lot of things, most of them he can’t say in public, but of all the things he is, a whore isn’t one of them. He doesn’t have much in the way of standards, but there is a line and whoring himself is way the fuck past it.

“Calm down, kid. I just mean you fight like you can’t win – like you’re just trying to disable the person long enough to make a decent run for it.”

Which is exactly what he’s been doing – it’s what John trained him to do and he’s been thinking about that a lot lately, ever since Green. He’s not a little kid anymore. When he was ten, vulnerable worked for him. Everyone’s first instinct was to protect him or try to help him, but that’s been changing. Green and his little band of would-be saviors were enough to show Dean that he can’t play that card anymore.

The problem with that is, it means he needs another one. He isn’t going to count on what Green referred to as John’s obsession with him to make the demon want to keep him around. As much as he’d like to think John wouldn’t toss him aside if he wasn’t useful anymore, he isn’t going to take the chance. Entering by force is obviously harder and messier then tricking people into opening the door for him, but it still gets the job done and in the end, he’s pretty sure that’s what John really cares about.

So as much as he’d rather knife Tyler for the whore comment, he can’t deny that he’s right and he really wants to know how to change that.

Swallowing down his pride, he stands up straighter. “Okay, so, what do I do?”

“Usually, the hardest part is teaching someone not to hold back.” Dean has no idea what that means, so he doesn’t say anything to it and Tyler keeps going, either because he likes hearing himself talk or because he senses Dean’s confusion. “Most times they don’t want to hurt other people. They pull their punches. You don’t do that.”

No, he doesn’t. If John says shoot, he isn’t asking for a superficial injury and when Tyler said to fight, Dean hadn’t even considered not putting everything into it. Not that it had done him any good. The few blows he’d actually landed had barely given Tyler pause.

“You didn’t hesitate and that’s half the battle right there. The rest is easy.”

Somehow, Dean doubts that, but he doesn’t argue. He does make the point that he won’t be coming back any time soon. John said a few days and he already feels like he’s pushing it being here now, so he won’t be coming tomorrow and he isn’t sure when they’ll come back through, just that they will. Probably. More likely than not. John likes this place for some reason. No, actually, Dean knows exactly why he likes it, he just doesn’t like thinking about it. Fumbled explanations aside, though, the point is this is the last time they’ll see each other for a while and Tyler, thankfully, doesn’t question it further. Not that Dean’s sure why he would, but people surprise him sometimes.

They work out things Dean can do on his own, an exercise routine, really, to help build muscle and dexterity, because Tyler says that’s important. Tyler also seems to think Dean’s ass is important more than once.

It isn’t the first time that’s happened, but it’s the first time with Tyler and the first time it’s been a guy Dean’s given a second thought to. Mostly, he thinks girls are just easier, uncomplicated. He doesn’t have to worry about getting his ass kicked if he’s picking up the wrong signal, or trying to come up with ways to gauge a situation without being obvious.

It’s a little confusing. Okay, a lot confusing, but he doesn’t have time to think about it right now. Tyler’s lunch hour is over and he has to get back to Sammy. The way Tyler smiles at him and holds his hand in a firm shake just a little too long gives him something to think about. If he’s still thinking the next time they roll through, maybe he’ll do something about it. Or maybe not, there are too many ifs and who know what the hell’s going to happen between now and then.

He takes the walk back slow, lets the idea roll around his head. Tyler’s bigger then him, both in height and width. The girls he’s messed around with have always been smaller and he isn’t sure why that matters, except something about knowing Tyler could literally hold him down if Dean changes his mind… he pauses just outside the library doors, because the idea of being held down isn’t nearly as much of a turn off as it should be and if he was a little confused before, he’s really confused now. As little control as Dean has over his life, he really doesn’t think the idea of being held down by anyone for any reason should get him even halfway there, but if he doesn’t stop thinking about it, he’s gonna get cited for public indecency.

The librarian eyes him with more disdain than usual when he walks in, but he doesn’t think much about that. He just wants to get Sammy and go back to the room. They can get some popcorn at the gas station across the street, settle in for the night and Dean’ll even let Sammy watch one of those stupid true crime documentaries if he wants to. Of course, he’ll bitch about, because that’s his right and duty as the older brother and speaking of which, where the hell is Sammy?

He stares at the set of chairs sitting in the corner of the library where Sammy usually plants himself. They’re old and ratty, a strange shade of puke green that was popular sometime in the seventies, but really comfortable. And empty. Okay, this wasn’t exactly a reason to panic. Sammy could have finished his book and gone looking for another one. He could have gone over to the music stacks to listen to something, or he could be in the bathroom.

Except he isn’t in the bathroom and a quick walk through the stacks confirms Sammy isn’t looking for a new book and he isn’t listening to music. It’s only been two minutes, but Dean’s chest is so tight he can’t breathe. If Hunters had come in, or other demons, Sammy would have made some kind of fuss. Someone would have seen something.

He could be jumping the gun, though. There’s nothing saying Sammy didn’t just get hungry and go out for something – Dean left him five bucks, just in case – other than, of course, the fact that Sammy’s never done that before. Then again, Dean’s never left Sammy alone this much, so… so, yeah, he needs to ask someone. He needs to stay calm.

The librarian raises her silver eyebrows as he approaches and he gives his most charming smile, even if he knows it won’t impress her. “Hey, have you seen Sammy?”

She stamps a book and nods, but doesn’t say anything and it takes real work to keep the smile on his face. “Where is he?”

“He left.” She has her finger pressed just under the number on the card inside the book cover and takes a moment to type it into her computer before finishing. “About fifteen minutes ago.”

He waits, but she’s moving to the next book and giving no sign of continuing. This would be so much easier if he had a gun permit. Well, that and if pulling a gun out and threatening to shoot someone in the face if they didn’t talk wasn’t frowned upon by the general public. And the law.

“He leave alone?”

“No.”

“Who did he leave with?”

When she looks up this time, she makes eye contact and it’s obvious he isn’t going to like what she’s about to say. “Your father.”

 Fuck.


	11. Chapter 11

“Fuck!”

She’d been so goddamn smug about it. Dean half wonders if she didn’t actually call John, though he can’t figure out how she would have gotten his number. The demon doesn’t exactly socialize with people, he doesn’t go grocery shopping, and as far as Dean knows, he’s never stepped foot in a library until today.

He kicks the wall and frowns at the hole it leaves in the plaster. It’s not that he thinks John isn’t coming back, it’s more a matter of how long he’ll make Dean wait. The longest was when Dean complained about doing two jobs in one summer and John made him stay in the motel room while he took Sammy to Bad Touch Lady’s house in Nevada. Fifteen hours waiting, thinking about Sammy’s crest fallen expression when he’d realized Dean wasn’t coming, biting his thumb nail until it bled.

This is worse, because at least he had a time frame then. Sammy’s duffel is still tucked in the corner between the bed and the wall, but that doesn’t mean much. If John’s pissed enough to leave him to stew for a few days, he’s pissed enough not to care about a tooth brush and a change of clothes. At least he knows John won’t come back without his brother, because John may be a demonic son of a bitch, but he values his own ass too much to risk anyone deciding he isn’t doing his job.

In the end, Dean sits on the bed for thirty minutes, moves to the sink to wash his face off before going back to the bed. After another hour, he goes outside and sits on the curb. By the time he moves back in, the sun is setting and he’s thinking about worst case scenarios. He’s thinking about Sammy saying or doing something that pisses John off enough to make his eyes bleed into black. He thinks about Sammy freaking out and trying to run. He thinks too much.

It’s closing in on one in the morning when Dean can’t sit still anymore and starts getting their stuff ready to leave. John won’t want to stay when he gets back. In fact, there’s a good chance Dean’ll get thirty seconds to get in the car, which doesn’t leave a lot of time to make sure they haven’t forgotten anything. Fortunately, a byproduct of constantly moving is that they don’t have a lot of stuff. So, it takes him ten minutes to shove everything together and sweep the room to make sure nothing gets left behind.

By two, Dean’s wound tight enough he can’t sit anymore. He’s been pacing the room for twenty minutes when he finally, _finally_ hears the unmistakable rumble of the Impala pulling up to the motel. As much as he wants to rush the door, he knows that’ll give away more then he wants to. John’s already going to know, just by virtue of knowing Dean, that this is killing him, but Dean won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing that. He sits on the bed, then stands, sits again. Can’t decide which is more convincing and ends up on his feet when the door opens.

John doesn’t move right away. He gauges Dean, looks around the room, his eyes settling on the bags next to the door before going back to Dean, and examining his face, instantly reminding Dean of the dark bruises purpling the left side.

The silence hangs in the room for another few seconds, before John breaks it. “Get in the car.”

That command, coupled with that tone used to feel like someone driving a fist into his gut. It used to bring with it fear that John had decided he didn’t need him around anymore, that he wasn’t worth the trouble. He’s not sure when, but that’s changed. Maybe it was when John came to get him from Green. All he knows is that for the first time, he’s struck with certainty that John isn’t going to kill him, probably won’t even hurt him much. That doesn’t mean someone else isn’t going to die, but Dean can’t worry about that right now. Right now, his brother’s in the car waiting for him and the best way to mitigate the damage is to just do what John says.

John grabs the bags as Dean walks past and calls after him. “Front seat!”

“I figured!” It was always front seat when he was in trouble.

The motel door slams shut behind him and he’s barely opened the car door before John’s there, tossing the bags into the backseat as he gets behind the wheel. In the back, Sammy’s eyes are impossibly wide; face pale and mouth already open before John cuts him off. “No talking.”

Sammy’s mouth clamps shut, but his eyes stay wide. He’s staring at Dean with desperation, begging him with wide eyes that cut from John to the seat behind him, then back to John. Dean shakes his head and looks resolutely forward before John can tell him to. He knows the drill, even if Sammy doesn’t. Eyes forward, mouth shut, don’t say or do anything unless you’re ordered to.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sammy looks hurt, betrayed, but mostly confused and after a minute of staring between the back of John’s head to the side of Dean’s face, he seems to give up and pulls his knees to his chest, pressing into the corner of the seat and the door.

For fifteen minutes, no one says anything. John doesn’t take his eyes off the road as he drives. The next town over is heavily industrial, a good portion of it abandoned. Locals refer to it as a ghost town. The warehouse they pull up to is dark, with windows black from either tint or dirt and the words Bigs Co. in faded paint across the front. It reminds Dean of the night with Bill and the hellhounds. John likes to use Hunters to make points, because he thinks Dean trusts what they say – more specifically, he knows Dean won’t trust whatever he says – but there isn’t a reason for there to be any Hunters in the area and they haven’t played that game in a while.

Whatever it is, though, Dean’s pretty sure he’s not going to like it and he’s damn sure he’s going to wish Sammy was tucked safely back in the motel room and away from John.

Without a word, John puts the car in park and gets out. The low, background hum of the engine fills the silence for half a second before Sammy steps all over it. “He has Tyler in the trunk.”

Dean closes his eyes and curses under his breath. “You told him?”

Sammy shifts nervously, his jeans rubbing against the leather of the seat. “I didn’t think he’d… I mean… How the hell was I supposed know he was gonna… He just… He asked me where you were and he was pissed and I didn’t know what to say, so I told him the truth and then he wouldn’t take me back to the motel and he wouldn’t tell me what we were doing, but we just sat in a parking lot for hours and when he finally started driving again, it was after one and he parked in this alleyway a half a block from where Tyler was watching Joe’s girls and said he wanted a word with him and Tyler told him to fuck off, he was busy, and John says he insists and Tyler walked over and as soon as they were in the alley, he pulled a gun, Dean, and he pointed it at him and then Tyler started mouthing off about how he was doing him a favor and John said he’ll decide when he needs a favor and Tyler says fuck you and John…”

John opens the trunk and there isn’t any yelling or fighting or sounds of movement at all, but that doesn’t matter, because this is gonna get ugly fast.

“Sammy, Sammy, calm down.” He climbs over the seat and sits next to Sammy, who’s a very short step away from hyperventilating.

“No, you don’t understand, because he…”

“Sh, it’s okay, breathe.” There’s the sound of something heavy being dragged up and over the side of the trunk, dropped on the ground. It has to be Tyler. He’s unconscious, if not dead already. Sammy hears it too and starts to look over at the partially obstructed view out the back, but Dean puts a hand on his face. “Look at me, Sammy, just me. Come on, that’s it. Breathe. Good. Now, tell me the rest.”

“He, uh… they started going back and forth and John punched him and…” he gulps and it’s a little thick, like he might throw up. “He went down hard and then John just kept punching him. Like over and over and I… I got out of the car, to… I don’t know and Tyler’s face was a mess, like worse than yours last night, but John must have heard me, ‘cause he stopped and told me to get back in the car and then he put Tyler in the trunk and we came to get you.”

So Tyler probably isn’t dead, but Dean gets the feeling that won’t last much longer. When John gets pissed something dies. It won’t be Dean, it won’t be Sammy. Tyler’s just unfortunate enough to be the only other one there. Right now, though, Dean needs to focus on Sammy, because his brother’s looking at him with too big, expectant eyes, like he thinks Dean is going to say or do something to make this better and Dean isn’t sure he can.

John’s barked order of, “Get out of the car!” jars Dean from his indecision.

“Okay, Sammy, you just…” Just what?

“Dean!”

“I’m coming!” Then to Sam, “You stay in the car. I don’t care what he says, you stay in the car.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply as he gets out, slamming the door shut behind him. Tyler’s on the ground, palms pressed into rough cement, shaking his head to orient himself with John standing over him. The demon doesn’t have a weapon in his hands, but he doesn’t need one. His gun is tucked into the back of his pants if he wants to get messy, but Dean’s seen him snap someone’s neck without touching them. He’s seen him crush a person’s internal organs until they bled out their mouth without lifting a finger. He doesn’t need the guns or the knives or any of that, he just likes them. For a second, Dean kind of feels sorry for Tyler, right up until he opens his mouth.

“Son of a whore. I will fucking kick your ass, old man.”

Not that Dean’s never heard anyone say something like that, but Sammy was right about Tyler’s face being a mess and he’s not sure if it’s bravado or stupidity that’s making Tyler assume he has even half a chance.

John chuckles and stays where is, looking down at the younger man with a sneer on his face that holds absolutely zero amusement. Dean really wishes he was in the car with Sammy. “I would really like to see you try.”

He half expects him to. The shift in the way Tyler’s sitting on the ground says he’s getting ready for it, but other than that, he doesn’t move. “I didn’t do anything your boy didn’t ask for.”

“Doesn’t matter what he asked for.”

There’s a long pause and Dean’s still expected Tyler to make a move, but apparently, he isn’t as brave or as stupid as Dean thought he was, because he grits his teeth and says, “Wasn’t my idea.”

“Who’s was it?”

“Joe. He brought them to the gym with him and asked me to teach Dean to fight. Dean agreed. I was just doing the kid a favor.” Which isn’t going to get him out of this, but Dean has to commend his grasp on the situation.

“I thought we already talked about favors.” Tyler looks at Dean, who keeps his eyes on the dirty, cracked pavement at his feet. “Now, you said this was Joe’s idea?”

Tyler nods, his attention back on John. John looks at Dean, who still doesn’t look up. If John wants answers, he can ask for them. When Dean doesn’t offer anything, John pulls a phone out of his jacket pocket and hands it to Dean, pulls his gun out and aims it at Tyler’s head in warning. “Call him. Tell him to meet us here.”

Joe doesn’t pick up the first three times Dean calls, but on the fourth one, he finally answers, voice rough and annoyed. “What?”

“It’s Dean.”

The pause is long enough to be significant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, look, John needs you to meet him in the Ghost Town.” The pause is even longer and Dean has half a mind to hang up and let John do this. He’s tired of playing bait. “You know what? Screw this. He found out and he’s pissed. We’re at one of the warehouses, Bigs Co.? Ring a bell?”

“I know it. Tyler there?” He hums his affirmative response, looking at John, who has one eyebrow up that says he’s amused and that only makes Dean more annoyed. There isn’t anything amusing about this – maybe if Sammy wasn’t in the back of the car listening, but even then, Dean tries hard not to let himself slip too far down the path of not knowing right from wrong and Tyler really was just trying to help. “Tell John I’ll be there in twenty.”

Dean closes the phone, hands it to John with a quick. “Twenty minutes.”

He turns to get back in the car and wait with Sammy, do some kind of damage control, but the firing of the gun stops him in his tracks. Son of a bitch. He hasn’t even got one foot around to confirm that John just did what he thinks he did, before the back door opens and Sammy comes out. Dean’s eyes land on what’s left of Tyler’s head as Sammy gasps and it’s like everything slows down, because this right here is what Dean’s been protecting his brother from. The realization that the man Sammy recognizes as his father, as useless as he is at it, is a killer. The realization that Dean himself is most likely one as well won’t be far behind that. Sammy doesn’t have to know that John’s a demon to know that he’s evil, but Dean can see the ink black in John’s eyes from where he’s standing and if he doesn’t move to block Sammy’s line of sight, he’ll see it to.

One traumatic revelation at a time.

In the second it takes him to move, Sammy starts to scream. It’s loud and piercing and John yells, “Shut him up!” even as Dean is already there, grabbing Sam’s shoulder’s and pushing him back and around until they’re on the other side of the car.

Sammy’s screaming dissolves into frantic words, “Oh my god, Dean, he killed him. He killed him. Oh my god.”

“Sh, Sammy, come on.”

“No, Dean, he _killed_ him.” Like Dean hadn’t seen, like he doesn’t understand and it strikes Dean that maybe, in a way, he doesn’t understand. He’s known since the minute the demon walked in the door, what it was and what it could do. Sammy doesn’t have that and Dean probably should have elaborated on what John was capable of a long time ago, he could have done that without explaining what John was, but hindsight’s twenty/twenty and he doesn’t have time to dwell on what he should have done.

“I know, Sammy.”

“He killed him, he...”

“I know.”

Then Sammy stops talking and staring at the fender of the car like he can see through it to the spray of blood and brains on the ground and turns to Dean, his face frozen in confusion. “You know?”

Dean doesn’t know if that’s really a question or if just sounds like one, so he nods and keeps his tight grip on Sammy’s arms, just below his shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“What?” Sammy waits and when Dean doesn’t say anything else, he jerks away, pulls out of Dean’s grip and back a few feet away before stopping. It hurts like hell to have Sammy looking at him like that, like he’s someone Sammy doesn’t know if he can trust. Like Dean knew he would.

Sammy pulls into himself, knees to his chest, arms wrapped protectively around his legs and doesn’t look at Dean. Dean doesn’t take his eyes off Sammy. In the background, John’s moving around. The trunk opens and shuts. There’s a familiar thunk of something heavy hitting something heavier as the demon kicks the body. Sammy keeps his eyes on the ground, lower lip trembling every so often like he might start crying, before he takes deep breath after deep breath and settles himself back down. It takes everything in Dean’s being not to move closer to him, but he gets the sense Sammy wouldn’t welcome the comfort right then.

John wanders over at one point, looks at them for a few minutes before going back to wait behind the car. Sammy doesn’t look at him, either.

This is exactly why Dean didn’t tell him. It’s exactly why he should have. He can’t see Sammy’s face well enough to know what he’s thinking and that scares him. If Sammy’s gonna run, he has to know, because he has to stop it. He’s not sure what John would do if Sammy tried to leave, but he doesn’t want to find out.

“Sammy…”

“No.”

It’s sharp and short and simple and Dean opens his mouth to keep going anyway, not sure what he’s going to say or what he can say, but he has to try something. He has to be able to make this better, at least a little. The glow of headlights in the distance catches his attention instead. Fifteen minutes. He’s early and Dean still doesn’t know what to do.

Dean’s seen all those stupid movies with pimps running around in white suits and ridiculously bright colored feathers sticking out of large hats. He’s sure somewhere out there, there are pimps that wear feather boas and carry large canes for beating their whores into submission, but that isn’t Joe. Joe wears wife beaters and cargo pants. If one of his whores needs a beating, his fist does just fine. However, he does drive a pastel pink 1975 Cadillac and the first time Dean saw him step out of it, he laughed so hard he nearly pissed himself.

Color aside, it’s a beautiful car. Dean doesn’t know if Joe pays someone, or does it himself, but it always looks shiny and purrs like it’s new. It’s been years since the Impala looked that good. John keeps it running well enough – cars are expensive and their dad owns it, free and clear, so John doesn’t see the point in getting a new one – but he doesn’t care if it looks nice and half the time he’ll let a rattle or a squeak go unchecked until it annoys him enough to do something about it.

Someday real soon, Dean’s going to learn how to take care of the car himself. As soon as he turns eighteen, he’s dropping out of school and getting a job with a mechanic and if they won’t pay him, he’ll do it for free until he knows enough to get paid. He has three things left of his father, a leather jacket, a car, and a body being worn by a demon and he takes care of all three as best he can.

Joe pulled up next to John and Dean stands, but doesn’t move away from Sammy, who visibly flinches. He’s fucked this up so bad.

The pink Cadillac stops a few feet from John and Dean thinks that’s his second mistake – the first being showing up in the first place. Not that it would have done any good, but Dean thinks the smart thing to do would have been to run into John where he was standing. Then again, before Joe was a pimp, he was a drug dealer, and before that he was a street thug. Like everyone else, he thinks he knows who he’s dealing with and he thinks he can handle it.

It’s the last mistake he’ll make. The last mistake Green and his cohorts made. The last mistake Carl Worth made. It’s the last mistake a lot of people make.

The Cadillac’s headlights are on John and Tyler’s body, the spray of blood under and around the head. When Joe steps out, he looks at the body, then at John and the frown on his face is deep and hard set. “Was that really necessary?”

John shrugs, “Maybe not, but it felt good.”

Dean moves forward a little to get a better view. The gun is still in John’s hand and the demon’s hand is twitching around the handle. Joe’s got about two minutes to live, if he’s lucky. If he’s unlucky, he’s got two minutes before John puts a bullet somewhere painful and a few hours of before John decides to end his misery. Considering the stony expression on the demon’s face, Dean thinking the latter is more likely.

He looks down at Sammy, curled even tighter into himself. His eyes are shut and he’s breathing a little heavier. He’s not crying, though, and Dean doesn’t want to be proud of that, but for a thirteen year old who just saw someone’s head get blown off and is facing the fact that not only is his father a murderer, but his brother’s probably one too, he’s holding up pretty well.

Joe doesn’t move away from his car. His left hand is hidden by the door and that arm is a fraction of an inch lower than the other, which means he’s holding something heavy. Probably a gun, a big one if he’s smart, but Dean isn’t counting on it. He eyes the corpse and Dean wonders what the guy was to him.

John waits a minute before pressing the conversation forward, let’s Joe soak it in. “You and me need to talk.”

Joe smiles, not pretty or nice, but hard, and the muscles of the heavier arm tense for action. “Oh, I don’t think you called me here to talk.”

“You went behind my back with my boy.”

“Didn’t think you’d mind someone teaching him how to hold his own.”

“If you didn’t think I’d mind, you wouldn’t have gone behind my back.”

Joe shrugs and for a second, Dean thinks he’s going to actually try and talk his way out of it. John’s reputation here is built mostly on rumor and things he did the first few times they pulled through. That was nearly ten years ago now, back when Joe had just started pushing drugs and he didn’t cross paths with him directly, so he doesn’t really know or maybe doesn’t believe those rumors.

Instead of talking, though, Joe raises his hand and, holy shit, it’s a semi fucking automatic. John has a lot of things in his arsenal, but that isn’t one of them. If Dean didn’t have as much faith in the demon as he does – and he knows exactly how fucked up it is that he has any faith in the son of a bitch that wears his father – he would duck for cover. Although, he might not have gotten the chance, because Joe doesn’t even finish lifting his arm, finger already curled around the trigger, before he’s shoved back by an invisible force.

He lands some ten feet away, scraping against cement, past his car and the gun skids well out of reach and keeps sliding, propelled by something other than gravity. Dean takes a second to confirm that John’s eyes are black again, face twisted in a familiar anger that always accompanies the use of his demonic power and then looks back down at Sammy and he can’t let this happen. One trauma at a time and Tyler was enough for tonight.

Rushing forward, he silently prays that Sammy either isn’t listening or doesn’t read too much into Joe’s cry of, “Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you?!”

He hears the telltale scream of someone whose inside have just started twisting around on themselves, compressing into a tight ball of agony, as he throws himself forward the last few steps. The demon doesn’t necessarily need to see the victim to make his power work, but he does need to concentrate and Dean intends to distract him.

“Okay, okay, okay, you made your point.”

Joe’s screams turn to groans as the power lets up. He isn’t going for his gun, though, so John’s probably still got him pinned.

“John, come on, it’s enough. You like him, right?”

“I like his whores.”

Which is exactly what Sammy had said over a weeks ago, and Dean would laugh if he weren’t so busy trying not to piss himself now that he has an angry John’s attention more or less focused on him.

“Right, but this isn’t about him. Or his whores. This is about you being pissed at me. You don’t need to kill him to make a point. You already did that with Tyler.”

Behind him, Joe’s grunting in an effort to push against the power still pressing him down and Dean wants to turn around and tell him to stop drawing attention to himself. He’s never successfully talked John out of killing anyone; although, to be fair, he’s never actually tried, either.

“I get it, okay? It’s just…” He falters. When it comes down to it, he isn’t really sure what this is about. Part of it is that he left Sammy alone, but if that was all it was, John would have left him waiting in the room longer – he would have said something about it when he picked Dean up at the motel, or he would have picked the librarian Dean had trusted with his brother’s safety instead of the guys teaching Dean how to fight. Behind John’s back.

John’s eyes are still black, inky and focused on Dean. “Just what, Dean?”

Behind his back. That’s what was bothering him. Dean’s gonna hear about leaving Sammy alone later, sure, but this with Joe is about Dean going to someone else for something. It’s about Dean not going to John first.

John’s eye twitches, patience wearing thin. “Dean.”

“No, no, sorry, this… this was for you.” The demon’s lip curls into a sneer, but Dean pushes forward. “This was _about_ you. I can’t…” how does he word this without making himself look weak?

John steps forward, grabbing Dean’s chin in his hand and pulls him up, so their nearly nose to nose. “You can’t what?”

Dean’s really going to think twice before putting himself between John and someone he wants to kill again. The fingers squeeze tighter, and the spike of pain forces the words out. “I can’t keep playing bait. I don’t look helpless and even if I did, they wouldn’t believe it. It’ll be like Green all over again.”

“Keep going.” The hand on his jaw loosens, but doesn’t let go. The thumb moves like a sickening stroke over the place it had pressed it, where Dean’s certain a bruise is going to form.

“They were just teaching me to fight so you can still use me to get in places. John, I… Sammy’s really freaked out. It’s enough for one night.”

“It’s gonna get worse.”

“But not tonight.” He needs a few days, weeks, hell, months if he can get them to work Sammy through this and he still isn’t sure how he’s going to do that. “Please.”

John stares down at him. Joe’s stopped making any noise at all, which means he’s either dead or finally realized it isn’t getting him anywhere. A minute goes by. Dean isn’t sure if he’s imagining it or he can actually hear Sammy’s jagged breathing in the distance.

Finally, John blinks and his eyes are hazel, his face melting into something calmer, but no less nasty. He let’s go of Dean’s chin and pats his face where fingers have left red marks along his jaw. “You go clean up the mess, get Sammy in the car. I’m gonna have a word with Joe here.”

John might still kill the man if he says something he doesn’t like, but it’s the best Dean’s going to get, so he gets to work. First order of business, before he gets his hands bloody, is checking on Sammy. His brother hasn’t moved, but his eyes are closed. When Dean reaches out, he jerks back out of the grip and glares at Dean with an intensity that rivals John’s.

“Sammy, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to explain right now. I need to get you in the car.”

“I can do it myself.” He pushes himself up, looks anywhere but Dean and the body still illuminated in the headlights of the Cadillac as he slips into the backseat of the Impala and resumes his curled up position on the seat.

The problem with Tyler is that he knew him. People saw them together. If someone finds his dead body, they would be able to connect Dean to it and that’s not something he’s ever had to worry about before. Thankfully, the majority of John’s training where Dean is concerned has centered around disposing of the bodies and covering their tracks. He uses his pocket knife to dig out the bullet and tucks it into his pocket before making sure Sammy isn’t looking.

There are a lot of ways to identify the body. He intends to burn Tyler, so finger prints shouldn’t be an issue, but dental records are. He has to take a few deep breathes before stamping down with the heel of his boot onto Tyler’s face. A few more hits and he’s pretty sure he’s done enough damage to make identification difficult, if not impossible. Usually, he uses a light sprinkling of lighter fluid, but for this one, he dumps the entire can over it, pours some in what’s left of the mouth, makes sure the hands get covered. Tyler has a tattoo on his back. Dean rolls the body on its stomach so he can get the majority of the fluid there.

It’s not perfect, but Sammy’s shows always say there’s no such thing as a perfect crime.

Sammy’s still ducked down so far he can barely see the top of his head, so Dean heads over to John to let him know it’s ready. They won’t set the fire until just before they drive off. Out this way, it’s long odds that anyone notices the smoke, let alone calls it in, but they don’t take chances at crime scenes. Well, Dean doesn’t. Sometimes, John likes to stand and watch the bodies burn, especially if they were still breathing when he lit them up.

John stands over Joe, who doesn’t try to stand, even though it’s obvious nothing’s holding him back anymore. “I think we’re done here. Joe, are we done?”

Joe spits blood out on the ground and nods. “Yeah, we’re done.”

It’s said with a certain finality that implies more than just that night. John’s smile says otherwise, but he doesn’t reply in words. Instead, he put his hand on the back of Dean’s neck and turns to walk back to the car, Dean struggling just a little to keep up with the demon’s longer strides. Dean gets in the front, eyes Sammy in the rearview, even if Sammy isn’t looking back and then watches John light Tyler on fire before getting in the car himself.

Joe’s still on the ground when they drive away, but he’s alive. Dean hopes that counts for something.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the wait. As of October, I had been writing this for a full year and I needed to take a step back, breathe deeply, and make sure everything was lined up the way I wanted. It is. I'm good now. Thank you so much for your patience. Now, on with the show.

If it does count, it’s not by much. Sammy doesn’t talk to him for two weeks. He hardly talks at all. Dean tries to push a little, prod, joke, question – if he starts to explain things, Sammy actually gets up and locks himself in the bathroom. He could probably yell through the door, but he prefers to give Sammy whatever privacy he can.

John, when he’s there, thinks it’s hilarious, so Dean decides he isn’t talking to John. That doesn’t work so well. The first time he ignores John’s question, a hand clamps onto the back of his neck, pinching into the nerves and shoves him down so his head is between his knees while the question is repeated until Dean answers it.

“Yes, fucking onions on my burger, okay? Jesus!”

For the first time in years, he seriously considers taking Sammy and making a run for it. If he thought he could get far enough, he would, but Sammy is still small for his age and he’d draw too much attention. Not to mention, Dean doesn’t exactly have a car of his own. If they run, it’ll be on foot or by bus and he’s not sure he can put enough distance between them and John to make it work.

It’s not that he thinks things with John are bad. John’s about status quo, but watching Sammy pull away from him is just about killing him and not in any painless way. Dean’s trying to be accommodating, but he’s maybe a few short hours from breaking when Sammy finally relents.

They haven’t stopped moving since the shit hit the fan. It’s not that unusual for the summer, though, so Dean isn’t sure if John’s worried about something or if he’s just… well, being John. Dean’s been riding in the front seat since it’s easier to pretend everything’s normal when Sammy isn’t squished against the door, as far away from him as possible.

It’s late, nearly time to find somewhere to sleep for the night and John’s in the 7-Eleven, paying for gas and whatever he deems appropriate for dinner.

“That’s not the first time, right?”

Dean almost doesn’t hear it. It sounds nothing like his smart ass little brother and he wants to lie to make it better, but he can’t. More harm than good in the end. He needs Sammy to know that he’s been there and he’s felt what Sammy’s feeling – like the world’s been pulled out from under him and he doesn’t know where he’s supposed to put his feet to stand – and it’s going to be okay, because Dean’s okay.

“No, not by a long shot.” Sammy sighs and Dean angles the mirror so he can see little brother’s brooding face without turning. “I didn’t want you to find out like that, you know?”

Sammy looks up, then, eyes narrowed and angry. “How did you want me to find out?”

“Pancakes. I was thinking about sitting you down over pancakes to explain how John’s killed a shit ton of people.” Which is a total lie, but Sammy’s anger wavers and his mouth twitches. “Truth is, Sammy, I didn’t know how to tell you.

Sammy frowns again, but it isn’t angry and he’s looking at Dean for the first time since that night with something other than resentment.

“I never lied to you, kid. John really does what I said. Sometimes people don’t want to tell him what he wants to know or they piss him off or _I_ piss him off and when that happens, things get bloody.” Then, because it’s really important that Sammy understands this next part. “He’d never hurt us, though, okay?”

He isn’t sure what he’s said, not right away, but Sammy’s clearly pissed off again and he leans forward, runs his finger over Dean’s neck and it takes him a second to realize he’s pointing out the faded, yellow bruises in the shape of John’s fingers. Dean jerks back and he gets the message, loud and clear, but Sammy says it anyway.

“How is that not hurting you?”

“It’s different.”

“He broke your wrist.”

“I pulled a knife on him!”

“That doesn’t…”

The driver’s door opens and they both abruptly turn away from each other as John leans down, looking at them in silence for several seconds before moving to sit. “At least he’s talking to you.”

Dean would tell John to fuck off if he wasn’t right.

 

 

*****

 

 

“I’ve got a job.”

They’ve been moving nearly nonstop for a month, John’s favored them sleeping in the car more often than not and when they do stop at motels, it’s for one night before he packs them back into the car. Sammy isn’t happy about it, but he hasn’t been happy about anything since that night in Louisiana.

They’re talking, but barely. Sammy’s still struggling to understand and Dean hasn’t come up with a way to explain it that makes sense. He’s thought about coming clean with the whole truth, but if Sammy’s this wigged out about John being a killer, he’ll flip if Dean adds ‘demon’ to it. All that does, though, is leave Sammy with more questions than he has answers.

Thankfully, they haven’t had much chance to talk about it, because John’s always there and Sammy seems to at least understand the need to keep their conversations private. Unfortunately, while he’s had extra time to try and come up with something to say that will make it better, he’s got nothing.

So, when they pull up in front of a house on a quiet, well groomed street at half past midnight, Dean’s too mentally exhausted to even hazard a guess as to why they’ve pulled over. Then John looks back at Sammy slumped over and asleep against the passenger side window before motioning for Dean to get out and says, “I’ve got a job,” and Dean feels a little blindsided. He shouldn’t, but he does.

He drops his voice low, conscious of people asleep or maybe awake in the houses around them, of pet dogs that could start barking at the strangers standing on the sidewalk just outside. “You can’t be serious. He’s barely talking to me. You can’t drag him to a fucking torture show.”

“Won’t be any torture.” Before Dean can question that, he keeps going. “Job’s changed. Azazel thinks my attentions are too spread out. Finding things takes time and resources that are better spent on Sammy. Until he says otherwise, I’ll be hunting down wayward souls that are doing a better than average job of not living up to their bargains. ”

“You what?”

“People sell their souls away every day. For five, ten years you can have just about anything, but they’re not exactly eager to live up to their end of it when the time comes.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

John chuckles. “Most of the time the hell hounds can sniff them out just fine, but every once in a while, someone gets really resourceful. For now, that’s what I do.”

“So, essentially, you’re a hitman for… what did you call him? Azazel?”

The smile drops and Dean gets the impression John’s said something he shouldn’t have. “Yeah, yellow eyes, Azazel. Don’t say his name again. Names have power.”

“What kind of power?” Power’s good. He could use a little power.

“With a name, you could summon him. I don’t recommend it.”

Yeah. Dean’s not recommending that either. One time meeting the yellowed eyed demon was more than enough for him. “Okay, so drop us somewhere and do the job. It’s not like we’re going anywhere.”

“If they’re resourceful enough to hide from hell hounds, I may need you.”

In principle, Dean has no problem with it. Helping John kill some poor bastard stupid enough to sell his soul to demons was better than killing a hunter who was in the business of helping people. His hang up is Sammy. The idea that Dean may be doing some of the killing or at least helping in it, hasn’t come up in what little conversation they’ve had. So far, all talking has been geared toward Dean trying to make Sammy understand that John isn’t going to hurt them and Sammy steadfastly refusing to be placated, regardless of the whether he agrees or not – which, for the record, he doesn’t. He’s already having enough trouble and doesn’t need John dragging Sammy into another killing field just yet.

“You said…”

“I said he doesn’t have to get his hands bloody. And he doesn’t, but you’re coming and I can’t leave him alone.”

Dean rocks a little on his heels, trying to think of a way around it, but there really isn’t one. It’s not like John can’t do it without him. Dean knows enough to know demons don’t usually drag around pet humans to help them do their dirty work. There has to be ways around all the little ‘problems’ John says he needs Dean for. No, this is about what John wants and Dean isn’t going to be able to talk him out of that.

“Right now? You couldn’t have given me a few days to maybe try and explain it to him?”

“You’ve had a month. If he isn’t listening to you yet, he isn’t going to. A few days won’t make a difference.”

Son of a bitch is right, too. He can’t think of anything to say to Sammy, because he knows nothing he says is going to make any difference. The only thing that will make a difference is time and they aren’t going to get that until after the school year starts and John has to stop dragging them around.

He looks over and Sammy’s awake, staring at them through the windshield with mistrust.

Resolutely, he opens the door his brother had been sleeping against only minutes before and leans up. “Hey, how are you?”

Sammy’s eyes narrow suspiciously, “Where are we?”

“Job.”

“Wait, as in…” Sammy’s eyes go wide as Dean nods.

“I need you to get down. Sit on the floor and wait for us to get back. We won’t be long.” He glances at John, who nods his confirmation. “Stay down and don’t make a sound, okay?”

He waits until Sammy’s curled himself into the space between the seats. It’s a tight fit, even if he’s small for his age, but when Dean closes the door, he can’t see the kid at all and that’s more important than Sammy being comfortable. John hands him a gun, silencer already screwed on, but doesn’t take out his own, which means he expects Dean to do the killing.

As much as he wants to complain, though, he could really use a kill right about now. The tension over the last month and a half has been building steadily and it’s weighing him down. He needs to release it and now is as good a time as any.

They bypass the front porch. It’s brightly lit and they don’t need that kind of attention. The side yard is narrow and dark and there’s a window just before the fence line that look promising. Hunters tend to ward against the supernatural and forget the natural. He’s not sure of the hows and whys, but he knows he’s slipped through more than one unlocked window. Maybe they have a death wish or maybe they’re just a little too cocky – either way, he isn’t surprised when the side window slides open with a little work.

He tucks the gun in the back of his jeans, careful to thumb on the safety, just in case, and John stoops to cup Dean’s foot, hoisting him up and over the ledge. It’s a simple move. It’s easy. They’ve done it a dozen times before. He jumps in, lands in a crouch and immediately draws the gun, releasing the safety in the same motion and holds it out in front as he scans the room to get his surroundings and verify that he’s alone.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.

Instead, he jumps in, crouches and barely has his hand on the butt of a gun when the sound of a rifle cocking stops him. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

“’Fraid not. Hands where I can see ‘em.”

This really isn’t his day. Or month. Actually, the last three months can just go fuck themselves. He’s barely got his hands on the back of head when something wet hits the side of his face and he turns to see a man standing in the shadows to his left. After a minute, the guy steps out and he’s probably in his forties, dark circle under his eyes. Dean’s guessing he hasn’t slept in days, which is good, because he’ll be more easily distracted.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, a minute, before they guy speaks again. “You’re not a demon.”

“Congratulations, you get a cookie.” The guy’s finger wavers on the trigger. “What the hell’s a gun gonna do against a demon, anyway?”

“Gun’s not for the demons. The gun is for trespassers.” He lowers the rifle marginally, not enough to be called relaxed and not enough for Dean to make a go at his own gun, but he’s letting his guard down, just a little. “Why were you breaking into my house?”

“Would you believe the television?” The gun comes back up. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

“Why are you here?”

Dean lifts his hands higher, adjusts his feet under him so he’s sitting on his knees. He just needs a few more minutes. “Because I make questionable life choices. Someone hired me to take care of a problem. Unfortunately for you, you’re the problem.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be a hitman?”

“They’re demons. I don’t think they care about my age.”

The rifle wavers again, dropping so it’s pointed more at Dean’s chest and less at his face. He’s got a countdown going in the back of his head, ticking down from five minutes. When push comes to shove, there isn’t much John can’t get past. He likes having Dean there, he enjoys seeing how far he can push him, and Dean does make for a good distraction. It’s certainly a lot easier with him there, but John could manage just fine on his own.

Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time someone has gotten the drop on Dean by a long shot. In fact, Green wasn’t even the first. The past few years it’s been happening more frequently, so they have a backup plan. He keeps whoever it is focused on him and John will come up from behind and use his demonic power to take the guy out. It works for them and if the wards are set _really_ well – which he has to assume they are if the hellhounds haven’t gotten him yet – Dean’s looking at five minutes.

So, when he came up off the floor and found himself at the end of a barrel, he started counting. He’s at three minutes five seconds and he hasn’t heard anything. Not a creek or a rustle. John never makes a sound, though, so that doesn’t mean much.

Three minutes ten seconds.

“What’d you sell your soul for, anyway?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really, just curious.”

“…promotion. I wanted to make partner in my firm and word was it wasn’t happening.”

“So, you figure, what the hell? I’ll just sell my soul? What’d you get for it?” John had said five or ten years. What’s the going rate for a promotion?

Three minutes forty seconds.

“Five years. I didn’t think he was serious until the head partner against my promotion died in a freak boating accident the next day.”

Three minutes fifty seconds and what the hell is taking so long?

“What about you, kid, what’s the going rate for your soul?”

It takes Dean a second to realize he’s asking how much the demon is paying Dean to kill him. That’s a really good question, actually. Dean’s not sure how much money it would take for him to do a legitimate hit. If money were an option, which it isn’t. Dean’s going rate is ‘you get to keep taking care of Sammy’ and he’ll take it with a smile. Okay, not a smile, or at least, not a sincere one, but that’s the way John likes it.

Four minutes.

This guy doesn’t need to know that, though, so Dean sticks with, “A lot.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand, cash, if you walk out the front door.”

Dean stutters a little, losing count, because that’s some serious money. Someone hiding from not just demons, but hell hounds – he’d be unable to walk out the front door. He’d have emptied his bank accounts at the least, probably pawned anything of value. So, chances are, he really has that money somewhere in the house, maybe more.

Still, it’ll take a hell of a lot more than money to get him to cross John and he doesn’t see the point in pretending. Keep the guy distracted, keep his focus on Dean. “Sorry, not big on pissing off demons.”

Four minutes thirty seconds?

“Yeah, didn’t think so.”

The rifle comes back up again and Dean sees the determination in the hardened gaze. Shit, he overplayed his hand. He should have accepted the offer. “Okay, let’s just talk about…”

He hears the soft pop of the silencer like a canon going off at the same time a fine spray of blood hits him in the face. He closes his eyes instinctively, so he doesn’t see so much as hear the body hit the floor. Dead weight has a different sound than injured. Besides, John doesn’t miss.

Reaching up, he wipes at the blood with his hands to make sure none of it will get in his eyes or mouth and rubs it off on his jeans because they were getting too tight anyway. Unfortunately, he can already see a few spots on his shirt.

“Really? You couldn’t have broken his neck or thrown him across the room, you had to shoot him?”

John raises an eyebrow from the doorway, taking a moment to glance at the body before looking back at Dean. “Does it matter?”

Which makes Dean think the son of a bitch was probably listening the whole damn time. “Yeah, you know what, it does. This,” he pulls at his shirt with finger tips, “was my favorite shirt.”

For a second, he thinks he’s pissed John off, because his expression blanks, but then a smile spreads – a real, honest to god smile – and for a second Dean’s reminded of his dad so much it hurts. “I’ll buy you a new one. Go check on Sammy.”

He doesn’t have to be asked twice. The front porch was too bright, so he goes back out the way he came. While the shot going off may have been deafening to him in its familiarity, he knows it’ll have been barely audible to anyone outside – just a brief pop that could have been someone opening a Champaign bottle or dropping something heavy on carpeted floor. Still, caution is what’s kept them off the police radar so far, so once he’s out, he takes a minute to look around, make sure no one’s looking out their window, or walking past before making his way to the car across the street.

Sammy’s still tucked in where they left him and Dean gets in with a smile before he catches himself. He’s used to playing it off. What he does with John has never involved Sammy and seeing his brother after a job is always a relief for both of them. Now, though, Sammy’s been waiting in the dark of the car, under trees with no street lamps close enough to chase away the shadows and he knows what they’ve been doing.

He shouldn’t have smiled.

Reaching forward, he flicked on the overhead light. He wouldn’t under normal circumstances, but normal circumstances didn’t include Sammy. His brother isn’t crying, he does cringe from the suddenness of the light, but he doesn’t pull away when Dean gets into the car.

As soon as the door is closed behind him, he asks, “Hey, kid, how you holding up?” It’s a loaded question, but Dean figures he deserves anything he gets.

“You’ve got something on your face.” It’s barely a whisper and it takes Dean a second to realize he’s talking about the smears of blood left from where he’d wiped them earlier. Shit. He should have washed up before coming out, but that had never been a problem before.

“Right.” He reaches up into the front, gets the wipes from the glove compartment and uses them and the rearview to make sure he gets all of it. There isn’t much, he was on his knees, so while a few stray drops got on his shirt and face, most of it seems to be in his hair and he can’t do anything about until after they get back to the rooms. He wipes his hands off after and dumps the red stained wipes onto the floor of the car with a silent apology. He’ll clean her up later, when he has the time.

Sitting back down, he looks at Sammy hopefully, “Better.”

“No.”

Of course not, because this isn’t about Dean having blood on his face, it’s about how that blood got there and Dean can’t scrub that away.

John comes back ten minutes later, dumps an unfamiliar duffle in the backseat that Dean knows is full of whatever cash and jewelry he could find in the place that didn’t look too conspicuous. Class rings and anything unique enough to draw attention will have been left in the house, but anything plain and easily overlooked, that’s what John takes. Dean knows he had to have heard the offer the guy made and half wonders if he found the guy’s stash. He probably did, John could sniff out money like a pig digging for truffles.

The next two hours are loud and silent all at once. John has the radio on, but no one talks, which isn’t unusual. Sammy, though, won’t even look at him from where he’s still huddled on the floor, because he hasn’t gotten up, Dean can’t bring himself to make him, and John could give a rat’s ass.

When they finally pull off the road and up to a motel, John pays for a solid week, drops them at a door and leaves without a word. Dean can’t decide if the demon is counting on him to make it okay with Sammy or if John just expects him to make sure Sammy doesn’t leave. Either one makes him a sick to his stomach. He’s always been better at avoidance.

The door’s barely closed behind them and it’s on the tip of Dean’s tongue to ask if Sammy wants to walk down to the gas station for chips and soda when Sammy rounds on him. “What does he have on you?”

Dean stuttered blindly for a second, trying to come up with an answer to a question he wasn’t expecting. Sammy wasn’t waiting for the answer, though.

“You think I’m blind or naïve or something, Dean, but I’m not. I knew you didn’t like leaving me behind and I knew you didn’t like doing whatever it was you two did when you were gone, but I didn’t think…” Dean steps forward, but Sammy backs up a few steps, fists balled up as he plows forward with words. “No, okay? Just… no, you aren’t going to be able to make this better or whatever you’re thinking.   Do you even like doing it? No, of course not, because you have nightmares.”

“I don’t…”

“Yeah, you do. Every time you two disappear and they last weeks, sometimes months.”

“But you never said…”

“Of course not, because the one time I did, John made you sleep on the couch. It isn’t… not like then, but you toss and turn like you can’t get settled and I know you get out of bed after only a few hours, Dean, so why? Is it because he’s our dad…?”

“No.” Dean can’t put enough emphasis on that word. Regardless of whether his dad is still in there, he doesn’t want Sammy associating that word with John. If he ever gets their dad back… well, he’ll deal with that when it happens, but he’s starting to doubt it’s ever going to.

“Then what?!”

“You! Okay, Sammy? You.” And he hadn’t meant to say it, but he has and he can’t take it back. Mostly because he’s got so many lies working, he has to tell the truth about something or he won’t be able to keep it all straight.

“Me?” Sammy looks sick, eyes too wide and heavy brows pulled together. His arms are wrapping weakly around himself like that offers protection.

Dean doesn’t think about it before he rushes forward, wraps his arms around Sammy and the kid smells like lavender shampoo and potpourri soap – cheap motel freebies, because John’s moved them around too much in the last month to stop and get anything better. After a few seconds, Sammy melts into it, pressing his forehead into Dean’s chest.

He waits until the shoulders loosen under his arms before speaking. “The first time he left you with her, he told me that if I wanted to see you again, I had to do what he said. So, I did and I kept on doing it and, Sammy? I don’t regret it, okay? I don’t like it, I fucking hate it.” Which is kind of a lie, but not really. He likes the release of the tension, the power it gives him, but if he could get that from something else, he would. Probably. “For you, though, no contest.”

Sammy’s hazel green eyes are too bright when he looks up, still too wide and he’s shaking. “So, let’s leave. He shouldn’t be back for, what, a few days? We have plenty of time to…”

“No.” Thankfully, Dean has prepared for this, it’s the one thing he’s managed to come up with a reasonable explanation for and one that he’s pretty sure Sammy will agree with. “Sammy, think about this, okay? You’re barely thirteen, you have school and even if I was okay with you being a middle school dropout – which I’m not – we’d attract too much attention. Even in a big city, someone would make us for runaways and we’d be dragged right back.”

“Not to mention, I don’t exactly have a social security card or a driver’s license, so getting any kind of legitimate job is off the board.” He knows, he’s looked into it. When he drops out next year, he’s going to have to fight John for those or start looking for work that pays under the table. Probably the later, because he’s had enough of fighting John for a while.

Sammy doesn’t argue, but he still looks like he wants to.

“It’s not so bad, okay? He said you don’t have to do anything. You just… stay out of our way and keep your head down for now. Can you do that?”

After a few seconds, Sammy nods, still shaky, but more resolute, maybe more stable then he has been since he saw Tyler shot. “And when I’m eighteen?”

“How about we just focus on getting you through puberty.”

Sammy pulls an arm away and swats Dean’s shoulder. “Jerk.”

Dean backs away and grins. This feels good. Sammy’s smiling again, just a little, and he still looks like he might cry, but at least he isn’t throwing Dean off or yelling at him or looking at him like he doesn’t know him or trust him.

Then Sammy’s smile slips. “You have… something in your hair.”

Right. “I’ll take a shower and, then, uh, hey, 24 hour gas station?”

Sammy nods and gives him a forced smile before sitting on the bed to wait and maybe it’s not perfect, but it’s a start.


	13. Chapter 13

By the time John gets back five days later, they’re mostly okay. Sammy still looks at Dean funny every now and then, like he’s trying to figure him out, but he doesn’t glare or pick fights. They watch too much television and when Sammy falls asleep, Dean does the exercises Tyler showed him to help build muscle and get some more strength behind his hits.

Unfortunately, while Sammy may have come to terms with what Dean does, he’s less accepting of John. He keeps his head down, but Dean can see him tracking John’s movements over the top of the book he’s reading. Somewhere between Odessa and the Nevada state line, Sammy started writing in his spiral notebook. Dean didn’t even know he still had a spiral notebook.

They stop for tacos just inside New Mexico – one of those rolling cart on a semi-busy street. He parks the cars and tells them to wait while he gets the food. They’re two weeks from the start of school and should be settling down soon. He just hopes they’re not headed for Vegas and bad touch lady. It wouldn’t be the first time John’s decided to get his fix before he has to play daddy for a few months.

As soon as John’s across the street, talking to the vendor, Dean turns on Sammy and the spiral open in his lap. “What is that?”

“Homework.” It’s said innocently enough, except the way he pulls his legs up like he’s hiding what he’s doing and the fact they aren’t in school yet, so he can’t possible have homework.

“I call bullshit.” He reaches back, but Sammy pulls his legs in tighter and John is occasionally looking over his shoulder while he waits. The last thing he needs is John getting suspicious right now. “Come on, Sammy, seriously, what are you doing?”

“I told you, homework.” He sets the spiral aside – face down, which does nothing to make Dean feel better – and digs in his bag, pulling out a math book that looks about ten years outdated and beat all to hell. “Ms. Ethel said I could have it.”

“Ms. Ethel?”

“The librarian, jackass. You’ve only known her for six years.” Ah, so, that’s her name.

“Language, Sammy, and we only go there a few weeks at a time, so technically, I’ve known her twelve weeks. Fourteen if I’m feeling generous.”

“Whatever. I was getting bored just reading all day and there were some books they were getting rid of. Old text books that were falling apart and she said I could take whatever I wanted. I wasn’t really thinking about it at the time, but maybe, you know, if I study hard enough, I can graduate early.”

Which means Dean would be okay with leaving John earlier. He won’t, but even if he was, it wouldn’t matter. Dean’s pretty sure the way they jump schools means that no matter how scary smart his little brother is or how hard he studies, he isn’t graduating early. Still, telling Sammy that isn’t going to make it better. If his kid brother wants to throw himself into school to help him cope with having a homicidal maniac for a father, then Dean’s not going to stop him. Besides, that, he’s pretty sure Sammy’s lying. If the kid really was working math problems, Dean would have seen the text book by now, but considering the number of lies he’s kept from his brother – the big one he’s still keeping – he can let Sammy have this one. At least for now.

John’s already headed back, so he reaches all the way back and flicks Sammy’s forehead affectionately. “You’re such a dork.”

Sammy sticks his tongue out as he shoves his spiral and math book back in his bag and John gets in the car, tossing a foil wrapped burrito into the back with Sammy while Dean digs out his tacos and decides to try his luck. “Where are we headed?”

“Vegas.”

Fuck his life.

 

 

*****

 

 

John gets a cell phone. Dean thinks it’s ridiculous. Son of a bitch can’t swing an extra fifty for a two bedroom apartment, but he can shell out forty a month for a piece on shit phone that gets crap reception in at least half the towns they end up in. So, while John has peace of mind of knowing that if Dean fucks up in school, he’s gonna hear about it regardless of where he happens to be, Dean is still sharing a bed with Sammy.

Not that he minds sharing with his brother. He’d give Sammy anything. If his brother needed an arm, he’d cut his own off without thinking twice, but Sammy is thirteen and he’s a fucking furnace when he sleeps. No, he’s an octopus shaped furnace that wraps itself around Dean at some point in the night and Dean wakes up sweaty and tangled in teenage limbs with his little brother’s morning wood digging into his hip and he doesn’t dare bring it up to Sammy, because he doesn’t want him being embarrassed about something he has no control over.

Thankfully, with the start of school, Dean has an outlet for his own hormone fueled sex drive. He considers talking to John about it. The demon doesn’t want Dean to go behind his back. Ever. Dean gets that now. John wants complete and utter control over what Dean does and who he spends time with. It’s never been a problem before, because Dean didn’t have room in his life for anything other than Sammy and while John allows him to take care of his brother however he wants, secrets and all, that doesn’t require going behind John’s back. He doesn’t even mind it so much anymore, because he can’t think back to a time when his every move wasn’t scrutinized.

So, yeah, he considers it. He considers minimizing the risk that John will get pissed off and kill someone to prove a non-existent point. It takes a whole thirty seconds to imagine what it would be like to run it by John that he wants to bang some girl – maybe point her out, let John assess her before he… Yeah, not happening. He isn’t completely reckless, though. He picks them popular and air headed, preferably a little bitchy if he can swing it, and he doesn’t engage outside of school. He doesn’t date. He doesn’t meet up with her and her friends at the movies or the mall. He doesn’t buy gifts or do anything else that might indicate he’s forming an attachment.

It helps that they’re moving just about every month, which is pissing Sammy off, because he doesn’t think the kid was lying about wanting to graduate early. In fact, he knows Sammy’s serious. He brought home papers and had Dean forge the signature to test out of certain classes. Unfortunately, they left before he could actually take the test – or, fortunately, for Dean, because if Sammy graduates early, he has to explain a whole year earlier about why they can’t up and leave.

That’s the deadline he’s given himself. Sammy graduates and Dean has to tell him. The truth is the only reason for them not packing up and walking out the front door, so he has to. Probably in a cabin in the middle of the woods somewhere so Sammy can’t run away until he’s had a chance to really explain things and that’s about as far as he gets into thinking about it, because any further and it starts to sound like that movie _Misery_ where the woman breaks the guy’s ankles so he can’t run away. Not that he’d break Sammy’s ankles, but handcuffing him to the bed might not be out of the question. Nope, definitely not thinking about it. He has four and a half years left to think about that.

Right now, he has a far more immediate concern.

“He’s not a serial killer.”

Sammy doesn’t look up from his book on Dahmer. “How do you know?”

Dean rolls his eyes and keeps changing the channel, because there’s nothing on, but there’s also nothing else to do. “I just do.”

“Right.” Sammy turns the page. Dean stops on an infomercial for a thigh master.   “Serial killers keep souvenirs, though.”

“I guess, why?”

“Last time, he took that bag.”

“Trust me, kid, that wasn’t a souvenir.”

Now Sammy looks up, lowering the book enough to make eye contact with Dean. “What was it?”

Sammy looks a little pale, a lot disgusted and it takes Dean a second to figure out what he’s thinking. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t a body.”

“Oh.”

“It was money.” Sammy’s fingers tighten on the book as Dean gives him a second to process that. “Remember when I said crime doesn’t pay as well as you think it does? And considering the number of whores he’s goes through…”

Dean leaves it there, but Sammy gets the message loud and clear.

“Are you serious? He kills people so he can blow money on hookers?”

“No, Sammy, he kills people because he likes it and he blows the money on hookers because he can.”

Sammy mumbles something about that sounding an awful lot like a serial killer and goes back to reading his book. Dean would argue, but talking Sammy out of one theory is inviting him to come up with another one.

It’s taken a few months, but Sammy has slowly started to unwind, delving into the one thing that Sammy thinks can make sense of everything. Books. Sammy’s certain books hold all the answers in the world and maybe they do, but not the kind he’s going to find in the Tuscon County library. Still, Dean has to admit, Sammy with a bone is better than Sammy tensing every time John comes within two feet of him, even if that bone is trying to diagnose him.

That’s a scary thought – the idea of some shrink getting his hands on John and trying to figure out what makes him tick. Dean has to wonder, just a little, how long it would take for John to go from amused by the situation to let’s gut something. Probably just under five minutes. Being black smoke that’s climbed its way back from the pits of hell, Dean’s pretty sure demons don’t have mothers, but he’s equally sure John would get irritated by questions regarding his nonexistent parents which is a psychiatrist’s bread and butter. If a psychiatrist ever got hold of Dean, they’d have a fucking field day. Actually, if a psychiatrist gets his hands on Dean, Dean’s gonna do the guy a favor and shoot him before he can piss Dean off and things get messy. John isn’t the only one that can enjoy playing with his food.

Great, now he’s thinking about John’s victims as food and that’s a disturbing image. He doesn’t think the demon is a cannibal. Is it even possible for a demon to be a cannibal? It isn’t really human, regardless of what unfortunate person it’s holed up in, so if it ate a human, would that make it a cannibal, or just a little more sick and twisted then its demonic brethren?

“What are you thinking about?” He startled from his thoughts to find Sammy staring at him from the other side of the bed, decidedly at least two feet from where he’d been snuggled up against Dean’s side a moment ago.

“What?”

“You just…” Instead of words, Sammy went with making faces. He frowned, smiled, huffed, frowned again, frowned deeper with brows pulled together in what was probably an exaggeration, then adjusted himself in his pants, which Dean doesn’t remember doing, but he doesn’t doubt Sammy’s telling the truth. “What was that?”

The facial expressions, John’s warned him about often enough - he emotes with his face, especially when he’s lost in his head. John finds it irritating, which is probably why Dean hasn’t bothered to really try and correct the habit. The semi he’s sporting, though, is the product of being a teenager watching a close up of Suzanne Somers’ baby blue crotch and tan thighs open and close rhythmically. While his attention might not have been fully on the program, his dick apparently was – either that or thinking about killing psychiatrists in bloody, violent ways gets him hard. He’s going with Suzanne Somers for now. He’s also not having that conversation with Sammy.

When Dean doesn’t answer right away, Sammy sighs, “Never mind.” He gets up to use the bathroom, sits back next to Dean when he gets back, but Dean can practically feel the frustration rolling off him.

“Come on, don’t be like that.”

Sammy’s frown deepens and he shrugs off Dean’s head when it tries to rest on his shoulder.

“Sammy…”

“It’s Sam.”

That’s new. “You what?”

“It’s Sam. Sammy’s a kid’s name, I’m not a kid.”

“Fuck you’re not a kid. You’re thirteen.”

“I’m old enough to live with a fucking serial killer.”

“He’s not a _serial killer_!”

A key in the front door shuts them both up, but they don’t even bother pretending they aren’t fighting, because there isn’t a point. John’s more than aware of the tension between them. He also couldn’t care less. It’s between them and as long as it doesn’t draw unwanted attention, he’s fine with letting them work it out on their own.

They’d both gotten up off the bed at some point, facing off from either side and Dean wants nothing more than to storm off, but he can’t. As much as Sammy’s curiosity is holding him together, he still uncomfortable with the idea of being left alone with John – he gets twitchy when Dean has to take a piss and John happens to be home.

So, instead of leaving, Dean throws himself back down on the bed, arms crossed over his chest and grabs the remote, returning to channel surfing through hazy pictures. After a moment’s hesitation, Sammy follows, picking his book up and pretending to bury himself in it again. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees John’s mouth twitch in something close to a smile.

The fridge opens and closes, a bottle cap pops off and Dean doesn’t need to look to know the demon is indulging in his second favorite vice. Well, okay, third. He’s pretty sure the order goes something like, sex, murder, alcohol, murder, gambling, which inevitably leads to murder, because John isn’t very good at gambling unless he’s cheating, which is often, but not always, because sometimes he likes to see the look on people’s faces when they think they have the upper hand and realize how completely screwed they really are.

Apparently, this new job of his – finding people, instead of artifacts – is a lot less time consuming and he gets bored. When he gets bored, he indulges. Dean waits until Sammy realizes his book is upside down and flips it over. He can tell when the kid starts focusing on the pages, because the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction at a time and his breathing evens out, becomes less restricted. When he’s sure Sammy’s occupied enough, he takes a better look at John through the open door of the bedroom.

Oh, yeah, definitely been indulging. He usually washes up before coming homing – a habit born of hiding it from Sammy and being stuck in a body he isn’t allowed to leave. He can’t afford to be on the police radar, so as much as it pains him, he has to stay cautious, at least for now. Walking around soaking in blood might be a little suspicious. Still, cautious and perfect are two different things and Dean knows his weak spots. His boots have dark, sticky spots shining under the dim light over the kitchenette, several of his finger nails are tinted dark in something a little redder than dirt, and he’s a little looser in his sag against the counter than he was before he left that morning. All signs that he’s been having the kind of fun with the locals that leads to bodies and them moving schools. It’s about time, anyway, they’ve been there a month and a half already.

Getting up off the bed, he ignores the questioning glance he gets from Sammy as he crosses the small room to stand next to John, eyeing the fingers wrapped around the beer. “Having fun or checking in?”

He’s known about the blood bowls for a few years. They’re creepy as hell – literally – and he’ll leave the room when John uses them rather than sit there and listen to demonic whispers coming from a pool of still warm blood. When he does stick around, by order or choice, he tries to listen, to hear what the whispers are saying, but he can never quite make it out. It doesn’t sound like English. It doesn’t even really sound human.

John holds up his free hand, looks at his nails with a critical raised lip. “Checking in.”

“Job?”

“Not yet.”

“When do we leave?”

Sammy’s half listening, his head down and cocked just a little to the left as John stares at him openly. “Does Sammy like the school here?”

That’s a new one, but Dean doesn’t see any reason to lie. “Yeah, I think, and it’s Sam now, by the way.”

They both catch the glare Sammy cuts their way before he can stop himself.

Talking with Sammy in the room and aware is new. Until now, John’s been about as discrete as Dean could hope for. If they needed to talk, they left the room or waited until Sammy was asleep. Apparently, that isn’t necessary anymore and never mind that Dean’s tried to argue it is, because if John doesn’t want to leave the room to talk, he isn’t leaving the room. It has to bother Sammy – being talked about, instead of to, being included only to the point that he’s allowed to hear what they’re saying, but not allowed to put any input in himself – but if it does, he doesn’t say anything about it. Dean can’t decide if that means his brother is so messed up he thinks it’s okay, or if he’s just smart enough not to draw attention to himself. Honestly, he’s afraid to even ask, so he lets it ride and if Sammy wants to make something of it, he will.

John doesn’t say anything for several minutes. He drinks his beer, watches Sammy. Sammy tries to pretend he’s interested in the book, but never turns the page, so he can’t really be reading it. The television is mumbling in the background, loud in the utter silence of the room.

Finally, the empty bottle goes on the counter and John shrugs. “We’ll stay.”

He doesn’t give them anything else. Doesn’t say how long or why, just bypasses Dean and goes into the bathroom to take a shower. Sammy sets the book down and moves off the bed to stand in the doorway, staring at the closed bathroom door until the shower turns on and even then, they don’t speak until the water is interrupted by someone getting under the spray.

“What the hell was that?!” Sammy’s voice is low and a little freaked out and Dean doesn’t blame him. “Does he… I mean, has he ever…?”

He can’t get the words out, because it’s strange. Not scary strange, just strange, and Dean shakes his head in answer. John doesn’t ask about school. He doesn’t ask for their opinion or what they want or, hell, even need. Dean still considers it a not-so-minor miracle that John agreed to feed Sammy something other than chips and soda when they were on the road – although that may have had something to do with the stomach ache that led to then three-year-old vomiting in the car thirty minutes from the nearest gas station.

They both stand there, exchanging confused looks until the shower shuts off, then scramble to lay back down in the bed, Dean turning the television up without really looking at what’s on, because whatever it is John’s playing at, it’s making them uncomfortable enough that they can forget their argument for now, focus on not drawing attention to themselves.

John stops just outside the door on the way to his bag by the couch and looks at the television for a second before looking at them. Sammy’s nose first in his book, Dean wasn’t really paying attention beyond just getting the volume up to a believable level, but now he does and groans inwardly. Of all the shows he could have landed on, he’s pretty sure Oprah is by far the worst.

Still, though, if he’s learned anything living with a demon, it’s how to be stubborn to the point of stupidity. He sits up straighter, puts the remote down on the bed and matches John’s raised eyebrows with his own. “What?”

John huffs and continues on to his bag and Dean’s pretty sure he isn’t fooling anyone, but to hell if he’s changing the channel now.

 

 

*****

 

 

Sammy teases him for days, because even after John leaves, Dean finishes the episode. Mostly, he’d been too lazy to reach over and get the remote, and he’d complain, except they’re slipping more and more into normal and if watching an episode of Oprah gets them a little closer to it, he’ll take the hit. It wasn’t bad, anyway – better then Springer, but Sammy doesn’t need to know that.

They stay past Christmas, and Dean doesn’t say anything when John enrolls him in the new school, but the day Dean turns eighteen, he walks into the registrar’s office and drops out.

He knows he’s in for a fight, probably more than one. He hasn’t brought up the idea of dropping out to John again. They’ve already talked about it, John set down the guidelines and Dean’s followed them. If John wants to be pissed about that, he can, but Dean’s about eighty percent sure he’s within the demon’s invisible boundaries on this one. Sammy, though? That’s another matter. Dean’s entire argument on them staying with John hinges on Sammy needing to finish school and he’s just dropped out. It’s a whole other level of hypocrisy that his brother is not going to be happy with.

John isn’t there when he gets back to the apartment, so Dean spends the next few hours before he has to pick up Sammy sitting on the couch. He doesn’t even turn on the television, just sits in the living room of the one bedroom apartment and stares at the ceiling. There’s noise outside, people talking, cars driving by, but the quiet inside the apartment itself still feels stifling. It feels like he can’t get comfortable in his own skin.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was alone. _Really_ alone. There’s always someone. Sammy hanging to his side most of the time, the other kids crammed into his schools, and the rest of the time it’s John or John and whoever he’s trying to get information from. Dean doesn’t do alone. This… this is alone and he doesn’t like it.

In fact, he gets off the sofa and finds himself hanging around outside the school half an hour before Sammy even gets out. He’s going to have to find a job soon or he’ll go completely insane.

“Dean?” There’s been a steady trickle of students for a while now that’s dwindled to stragglers. Sammy’s always one of the last, because he has to give Dean enough time to get over from the high school. “Where’s your bag?”

“Yeah, about that.”

 

 

*****

 

 

The next two hours is Sammy saying ‘it’s not fair’ with varying degrees ferocity.

“So, we can’t leave until I graduate, but you can drop out of high school without even running it by me?!”

“Tell you what, Sammy. You turn eighteen, you can drop out and I won’t say a word.”

“When I turn eighteen, I’ll be days away from graduation!”

He tisks, says, “Guess there’s no point dropping out then, huh?”

“That’s not fair!” And they start all over again until Sammy stops talking to him.

He’s still not talking to him the next morning when Dean walks him to school before going back to the apartment. It won’t last, though. He’s reasonably certain that in the grand scheme of things, Dean aiding and abetting John killing people is a worse offense then the hypocrisy of not letting Sammy drop out of school. Although, factoring in that Sammy’s a hormonal teenager means it actually could be.

When it doubt… “Have a good day, Sammy.”

Sammy stops just outside the door, “It’s Sam!” before stomping in to the sound of the warning bell.

At least the new name was good for something.

Dean is still chuckling to himself when he steps into the apartment… to find John waiting for him. He stops just inside the door. John doesn’t look pissed per say, but then John sometimes goes from ‘that’s funny’ to ‘I’m going to kill something’ in the span of one word. Usually that word is ‘no’, which isn’t in Dean’s vocabulary at the moment, so he should be good. Except while John doesn’t look pissed, he doesn’t look happy either. He’s tense and his face too neutral.

He hasn’t done anything, though, so what… John picks something up off the counter and holds it up and, oh shit, Dean forgot about the stupid fucking cell phone. “No, I was…”

The door behind him slams shut and Dean’s counts himself lucky that he isn’t shoved up against it. John still has the creepy neutral expression. “You were what?”

“Gonna tell you. As soon as you got back…”

“But not before I left.”

“I didn’t need to tell you before. We already talked about it.”

For a second, Dean really thinks that isn’t going to fly, then the moment passes and John shrugs, setting the phone down. “I don’t like surprises. Don’t let it happen again.”

“It won’t.” Probably. Dean’s optimistic. He waits a beat and when John doesn’t seem inclined to add anything, he offers, “I’m getting a job.”

“No.”

He wants to shout ‘why the hell not.’ He wants to put his foot down, or at least try, but that won’t get him anywhere – no, actually, it’ll get him somewhere and he’s got thirteen years of experience telling him exactly where that somewhere is and that he does not want to be there – so he tamps down on it, forces himself to breathe through the first sharp stabs of annoyance. He’s getting better at that.

Instead of lashing out, he crosses his arms over his chest, “Well, I’m not just going to sit around playing Susie Homemaker, so what do you suggest?”

The smile is instant and just slow enough in spreading that Dean knows he isn’t going to like what’s coming. “I’ve got a few ideas.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains the graphic death of a teenager and may be disturbing to some readers. To be fair, the whole story is pretty messed up, but just in case, you've been warned.

They drive around for a while and Dean isn’t sure what John’s up to until he pulls over and tells Dean to stay put. They’re outside what passes for a mall in the city. It’s a Wednesday, first thing in the morning and the shops are just opening. The few cars in the parking lot probably belong to the people working there. It takes ten minutes for John to come back and when he does there’s a woman trailing behind him – short skirt, tight top, blonde hair falling around petite shoulders – actually, woman might be a stretch and as they get closer, he cringes, because he knows her. Not by name, but he knows her face and she has to know his, because he finger banged her best friend under the bleachers while she took look out and made sure they weren’t interrupted.

She’s all smiles, looking around kind of nervously, but not nearly nervous enough for someone about to get in the car with a complete stranger. John opens the back for her and when she slides in and sees Dean, there’s genuine confusion for a few seconds before she lights up. “Hey, I know you! Dean something, right? You made it with Macy under the bleachers. You should totally call her.”

He has half a mind to deny it, but John’s watching her with a frozen smile and it looks like Dean can add another name to the growing list of deaths he’s responsible for, because John doesn’t like surprises. Fuck him. Next year, Dean’s throwing him a surprise party. He’ll even rent a clown so John isn’t the scariest thing there. It’s John’s fault, anyway. What the hell is he doing picking up girls Dean’s age?

John closes the door and goes for the trunk and Dean takes the opportunity to turn on her. “Why the hell aren’t you in school?”

“Duh, I’m skipping. Why aren’t you in school?”

“I dropped out.”

“…oh. Okay. So, uh, is that your dad? ‘Cause I’m not really into the whole father-son thing, so…”

Father-son, thing? Dean throws up a little in his mouth as the implication hits him. “No! That is not happening!”

“I know, I just said that.” The driver’s door opens and she leans forward as John gets in. “Hey, so you didn’t say anything about this being a threesome…”

She stops short, eyes impossibly wide as he puts up his gun, pointing it at her. Dean has just enough time to register that it’s the tranquilizer before he pulls the trigger and a dart drives into her neck. At this close a range, it’s gonna bruise like a son of a bitch, but the effects are instantaneous and after a muted scream, she slumps over on the seat, tiny yellow and black dart shining in the bright morning light. John sets the gun down and motions back with his head. “Get that.”

He climbs half in back, gets the dart out and props her up, head tipped down against the door so no one sees her face, seat belt on so they won’t get stopped. There’s a part of him humming in the background, having some kind of panic attack over this – someone he knows, someone who knows him, just like Tyler, John’s getting sloppy, it’s broad fucking daylight and people could see, probably did see John leaving with her, is she eighteen, does it matter – but he’s pushing it down for now. He can’t deal with it, can’t deal with John in the middle of town while some girl from his school, former school, is unconscious in the backseat.

John eyes him for a second before starting off again, probably sensing the oncoming storm of emotions and arguments that don’t start, because Dean’s better than that now. He knows when the appropriate time to voice his useless opinion is and it’s not now. They drive for thirty minutes. It’s not far enough in Dean’s opinion, but then they have to get back in time to get clean before picking up Sammy. It is, however, thickly treed and isolated.

Dean makes sure she’s still asleep before following John out of the car. “What the hell are you thinking?”

“Get the rope out of the trunk.”

He doesn’t even bother reaching for the key John tosses at him, just lets it fall into the grass by his feet instead. What he does for John, that’s Hunters, that’s people stupid enough to think they can hide something or someone from demons. They know what they’re getting into and maybe they didn’t think it through, but they still chose it. Even Tyler knew he was crossing John – might not have known exactly how dangerous that was, but he knew it wasn’t nothing – and John may go around killing innocent people for fun, but Dean doesn’t. He isn’t going to now, either.

“No.”

John’s expression darkens. “Get the ropes.”

“Not until you explain what the fuck we’re doing here. I know her! I knew Tyler. You can’t keep killing people we have a known association wi… ow! Mother fucker!”

A hand had shot out, grabbed his hair at the nape of his neck, twisting his head to the side and pulling him forward so John is looking down at him. “Get the rope, get the girl out of the car, tie her up.”

“N…”

The grip tightens, yanking a few hairs out with it. “Dean, you do exactly what I say and I’ll end this quickly. Say ‘no’ one more time and I’m gonna take my time with her. Remember the bartender in Tennessee?” John lets the words sink in and Dean shudders involuntarily.

When he lets go, Dean glares, rubbing the back of his head as he scopes up the keys aggressively and storms to the trunk. She’s small, but dead weight is always heavier and he grunts as he drags her away from the car, far enough that there’s little chance of blood getting on the Impala, no matter how creative John gets. He’s got her hands trussed behind her back, elbow to wrist. When he goes for her feet, John stops him.

“That’s enough. Gag her.”

“Are you gonna…”

“Gag her.”

He huffs, but goes back to the trunk and an oil rag to wrap around her head. Her hair, thick and wavy, gets caught in the knot and she gasps a little. The drugs are wearing off, but she’s still fighting her way to consciousness. She really shouldn’t bother.

“Sit down.”

He does as he’s told without protest and John comes over, moves the girl to rest against Dean with her back to his chest, her hips pushed up between his thighs, then puts himself in front of her between spread legs. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, sex or blood, it could go either way and Dean doesn’t want to hope for blood, but the idea of watching John have sex, any sex, let alone what this would be, makes him physically ill in a way blood hasn’t in a long time.

John pushes her head back against Dean’s shoulder. Her hair smells like strawberries and she’s breathing a little faster. Her arms twitch where they're trapped in rope against his abdomen. “Put your hand on her neck.”

He does and then let’s John move it until he can feel the heavy thud of a heartbeat under his palm. “The difference between what that little street punk was gonna teach you and what I’m gonna teach you is the end result. You aren’t fighting to win. You’re fighting to kill. Get me?”

“I’m bait, I don’t…”

“Job’s changed.”

Right, he forgot about that. That hadn’t been an issue when he was arguing with John over not killing Joe and he wishes he could take it back now, but he doesn’t think John would listen even if he tried. Numbly, he nods and distances himself from her as much as he can. It feels strange that he knows her, maybe not her name, but who she is. He knows she’s got the silver friendship bracelet on her left wrist, because Macy has the other half. He knows she bleaches her hair, because Macy complained about getting a bleach stain on her favorite red shirt helping her. Trish. Her name is Trish. Trish and Macy, totally best friends since like forever. He kind of hopes Macy doesn’t live long enough to see Trish’s body.

She shifts against him, her chest pulling in a large breath as she comes fully awake. There’s a brief moment of stillness before the realization hits that’s she’s been drugged, that she’s tied up, that there’s a hand on her neck, that John’s sitting between her legs smiling, but not at her, at someone behind her. Dean can feel her panic under his palm as her heart beats quicker and she gulps air through her nose and screams it out through the oily gag between her teeth.

John doesn’t so much as spare her a glance. He presses his hand over Dean’s and tightens the grip. Trish yanks forward against the grip, her arms tugging desperately at the restrains. She jerks her legs up, trying to use them to kick John off, but he uses his free hand to press one of her legs down at the thigh. The skirt she’s wearing rides up, flashing bright pink underwear and John’s fingers dig into the pale flesh just under them.

Something wet lands on Dean’s arm. She’s crying and he can’t do this.

John’s fingers push into his. They tighten around her neck and within seconds, her struggling is weaker, the screams are choked out and Dean thinks he hears his name in them – or maybe he’s just feeling guilty enough that he thinks he does.

She sags back against him, limp, but not unconscious, her chest still pulling desperately for air. John lets go and she sucks in, sobbing into the gag while he talks. “Carotid artery, if you can cut the blood to the brain, they’ll be out in seconds. Like this.”

He moves Dean’s arm over to bend around her throat, his forearm pressing into her pulse, then nods. Dean has to take a second. He’s has to ground himself, or un-ground himself maybe, because he can’t find that distant place he goes to that lets him sit and listen to John ‘question’ someone for hours and not vomit or cry or cover his ears like a fucking child.

Eventually, she starts struggling again and it’s instinct that has him pulling his arm in, cutting off her air and putting pressure on the artery to makes her flounder and go limp seconds later.

John smiles. “Good. You get behind someone, lock your arm,” he gets Dean’s other arm, lifts it off Trish’s chest so the hand on the arm choking her is jammed into the crook of his elbow, then pressed the palm against the back of Trish’s head, “it’ll be over in seconds. You want to finish it this way, it’ll take a minute or two, or you can let them go, finish it however else.”

He’s starting to feel a little light headed, like he isn’t all there. John is in sharp focus, color and sound, but Trish is background, muffled pleas. _No. Don’t. Please. God. Help. Dean._ It barley registers. That’s good. He needs that if he’s going to get through this. John said he’d do it quickly.

“You still got her pulse?”

He blinks at the question and has to focus on the heavy thud against his forearm before he nods.

When John takes his knife out and presses it against her thigh, just over where his thumb is digging in painfully hard, she starts screaming again, shaking and bucking against the hold and he has to readjust to hold her around the chest again, his hand on her neck so she can’t look down. Her pulse is erratic against his fingers and he can hear her drawing breath too hard and too fast through her nose. She’s hyperventilating, probably gonna pass out if she doesn’t calm down.

John presses the knife down again and this time it slides in with sickening ease. Dean always keeps the knives sharp, part of his job – knives sharp, guns oiled. The blood actually sprays out, hits John all over, but mostly in the face and chest, then just… pools. Femoral artery. He’s heard about that in a few of Sammy’s shows. She’ll bleed out quick.

It doesn’t take long. She’s slumped against him, unconscious in under ten seconds, her pulse weakening with every pump of blood that comes out of the neat slice in her skin. John’s hand is soaked red, rubbing into it like he’s encouraging it to pump faster, even as it slows down. It’s a good minute and a half before it stops entirely, before the faint thump of the heart that beats with the push of blood from the wound, tapers and dies.

It’s a while before they move and Dean can’t help watching the hand still working the puncture. John’s eyes are black and he’s hard, dick straining in his blood soaked jeans and he wants to feel sick, but he can’t. The only thing he feels is numb – that and a detached curiosity as to whether John’ll have sex with the dead body.

He doesn’t.

There’s protocol for kills and Dean focuses on that. He focuses on getting the body out into the woods and scrubbing it for evidence. He brings the rope back to the car where John’s already stripping down and shoving his clothes into one of the plastic trash bags they keep in there. Dean adds the rope to the bag and follows John’s lead, everything goes in the bag except his shoes. They tie it off and dump it in the wheel well with the weapons, then pull out the spare clothes they keep in a duffle pressed into one corner. It’s been a while since Dean got messy enough to need them and they’re a little tight, but doable. He uses the wipes to get their shoes clean, focusing on the bottoms especially, because he doesn’t want evidence tracked into the car. They’ll have to dispose of the clothes in town.

Back in the car, Dean looks at the clock. It isn’t even noon yet.

 

 

*****

 

 

Dean stays comfortable numb the next few hours. John insists they get lunch after appropriately disposing of the clothes. He isn’t hungry, he’s the furthest thing from it, but when John kicks him under the table hard enough to bruise his shin, he goes ahead and bites into the burger.

He’s seen John kill. That wasn’t any worse than anything else the demon has done. If anything, that was quicker and less painful than his preferred methods. Dean’s seen him drag a death out for hours. There was one time he stabbed a Hunter in the gut and watched him die, slowly, inch by inch, each passing minute more painful than the next. Compared to that, Trish had been lucky. Mostly painless and over in seconds.

John kicks him again and he swallows, takes another bite.

It wasn’t even like the rest of it was that bad, either. John likes to drag torture out as long as he can, sometimes well after he gets his information. Trish may have been scared – terrified, really – but it only lasted five, maybe ten minutes for her and it was mostly just fear, very little actual pain. Maybe she didn’t deserve it, she sure as hell didn’t ask for it, but it wasn’t really that bad, all things considered. John considered.

Another kick. Swallow, bite, chew.

He doesn’t even think it’s that he knew her, because he’d known Tyler. By the time he shot Green, he’d kind of known him – better than he knew Trish, anyway. Trish was just some girl he’d barely said hello to. In fact, he hadn’t done anymore than wink and nod, because he’d been too busy trying to get into Macy’s pants. His stomach clenches a little at the thought of Macy. How long is John going to wait before taking care of her?

Kick. “Stop it!”

The waitress and half the patrons are staring, even for a small town, it’s busy and John frowns at him. Dean flushes and looks down at the half eaten burger and untouched fries. “Sorry, just… not hungry.”

John shrugs. “Drink your soda at least.”

It takes a minute for people to look away and Dean manages to empty his head, keep his thoughts on the sharp tang of coke rather than the thoughts trying to boil over. After, John drops him at Sammy’ school and he sits on a bench to wait. It’s an hour until they let out, longer until Sammy straggles and Dean spends the time staring at nothing and going over the morning in his head.

John’s probably out stalking Macy right now. He’d take her and do… whatever it was he did when he was having fun. What John had done to Trish, he’d done for fun and not to say Dean had never seen John enjoy what he did, but he’d never been there when there wasn’t some kind of agenda. There hadn’t been one here. Oh, he’d taken the opportunity to show Dean a trick or two, but that could have been accomplished any number of ways. Kidnapping a young girl from a mall in broad daylight was by far the riskiest and least rewarding. At least as far as Dean is concerned. The tight pull of denim over John’s erection, though, had been proof that it had been extremely rewarding for him.

“Dean?”

It wasn’t just killing Trish that he’d been enjoying, either, because he’d barely looked at her. He’d been watching Dean the whole time, watching his face, reading his reactions. Getting off on them.

“Dean, are you okay?”

No, he really isn’t. He doesn’t realize he’s going to throw up until he’s bent over, the burger splashing on the curb in messy, half-digested chunks.

 

 

*****

 

 

John doesn’t come back that night and Sammy hovers over Dean, doing his best impression of a mother hen, which is a relief, because it’s been months since Dean saw that. Sammy’s anger apparently takes a back seat to his concern when Dean spends five minutes alternating between vomiting and shaking on the side of the street outside the school.

His temperature gets taken four times before Sammy’s satisfied he’s not actually sick, then there’s soup and bread and he has to stay in bed all night watching television, which is a sacrifice he’s willing to make. Honestly, the only emotion he’s feeling right now is embarrassment. He hasn’t reacted that badly to something John did in nearly eight years. Worse, now that he’s calmed down and had it out, he’s not sure what there was to freak out about in the first place. John’s never made a secret of the fact that he enjoys tormenting Dean. He’s just never done it so openly. Best he can tell, he’d slipped into something like shock early into it and simply hadn’t been able to pull himself out.

Now that he’s thinking clearly, though, he has every intention of putting his foot down on a few things, but those have to wait until John gets back. For now, he’s going to enjoy having Sammy hover over him, sprawled next to and on top of him and keeping him so warm, he’s hot. It’s good enough he can forget about that afternoon, that Macy will be dead in a few days, if not tonight, that they’ll be moving again real soon… okay, almost forget, but that’s good enough.

 

 

*****

 

 

Sammy knows him. Sammy knows him inside and out in ways that Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t know himself. It kind of scared Dean how well Sammy knows him, especially since Sammy found out about the killing and it became painfully obvious how transparent he is to his brother.

They’re half way to school when Sammy slows and stops. “You had nightmares last night.”

For a second, Dean’s going to deny it, but really, what’s the point. “Yeah?”

“Hm.” Sammy’s mouth is closed and working like he’s biting the inside of it. “What did he make you do?”

Dean starts looking around nervously, but they’re alone.

“While I was at school. There had to be something, because you were fine yesterday morning, then you came to get me and you were sick, but you weren’t and then you had nightmares. So, whatever it was, it was bad, right?” He’s too floored to respond right away and Sammy looks up at him through too long bangs. Kid needs a haircut. “Dean, what… what did he do?”

He wants to say nothing. He wants to brush it under like he has for years, because talking about this isn’t going to make it better. Not for him and not for Sammy. Unfortunately for him, Sammy has perfected the kicked puppy dog look and Dean hates that it works on him, but it does, especially when the damage is already done. Sammy knows something happened, the rest is just details.

“A girl. Think he was just… you know scratching an itch or whatever.”

“Like a serial killer.”

“He’s not a serial killer.” Seriously, Sammy needs to let that go.

“Then what is he, Dean? Because normal people don’t go around killing other normal people to… scratch an itch.”

Just because Sammy’s gone and gotten stubborn and taken Dean’s favorite weapon of denial away from him, does not mean he doesn’t have other weapons. He hesitates to use those weapons, because if he uses them too much, Sammy’ll figure it out, but ‘what is he’ hits just a little too close to home.

Dean does his best to look defensive. It helps that it isn’t entirely an act, but he got over the idea that there was anything normal about him a long time ago. Sammy doesn’t need to know that, though. “Normal people don’t stand back and watch it happen, either. They don’t hold down the victim.”

Sammy pales, his mouth opens and closes wordlessly. He looks vaguely ill and Dean almost wishes he could take it back. “Oh god, I… I didn’t mean…”

Dean flinches, like he’s said something he didn’t mean to and shies away from the hand Sammy reaches out with. “Dean, come on, you know I don’t think you’re anything like him.”

It just about kills him sidestepping his brother when he tries to touch Dean again, especially when he sees the hurt in Sammy’s face, but he can’t have this conversation again anytime soon. “No, I know, just… let’s get you to school.”

He stayed a good foot away from Sammy until they're a few feet away from the walkup to the school, then throws his arm around Sammy, pulling him into a side hug before ruffling his hair. “Macaroni after school. Don’t be late.”

The smile Sammy gives him is heartbreakingly large, deep with dimples, like he thinks Dean wasn’t going to forgive him that easy. For a second, while Sammy runs up the steps and through the glass doors, he entertains telling himself he won’t ever do that again – that he won’t ever blatantly manipulate Sammy – but he knows it would be a lie. Dean has to lie to Sammy sometimes, he tries to lie to John, and he can lie circles around every teacher, counselor, or random concerned citizen he comes across, but he won’t lie to himself.

He has to draw the line somewhere.

 

 

*****

 

 

John doesn’t show up again for three days.

Sammy doesn’t bring him up, either, and Dean wants to feel guilty, but he really needs the break, so he pushes down any feeling of guilt and focuses on finding something to do with his time.

The first day, he does laundry. Even if John doesn’t go after Macy – which Dean doubts, because every bone in his body says otherwise – there’s still Trish, so they’ll be moving again as soon as John does get back. Dean resolves to have everything packed and ready so there won’t be any scrambling. Less room for error, less chance of leaving something behind. Besides, he doesn’t really have much else he can do.

The second day, he tries to be lazy. It shouldn’t be hard. It isn’t like he’s never spent a day on the couch or curled up in the car with nothing to do but watch the scenery fly by. It’s that he’s never done it alone and it’s no fun watching Judge Judy without Sammy pressed against him making snide, sarcastic remarks under the his breath every few minutes.

The third day, he tries for more of the same, but by ten, he’s ready to climb the walls and seriously beginning to regret dropping out of school. He’s been staring at the television for twenty minutes and he has no idea what he’s watching. Screw this, there has to be something to do around town.

It’s cold out, but they’re south enough that it’s not snowing. John hates the cold. Probably something do with being a demon and the fiery pits of Hell, although he really doesn’t like the sweltering heat either, he just has his preferences. Thankfully, Dean agrees with him on this one. He hates the snow. Snow means they can get snowed in somewhere and that feels too much like being trapped and he’s trapped enough as it is.

Walking around without Sammy there is… different. He doesn’t have any distractions and he notices things he never did before. He notices people watching him. He notices that they look away when they realize he’s seen them. He isn’t actually sure he cares, but maybe he does.

The bulletin outside the grocery store has flyers pinned up. The highschool is doing some kind of fundraiser, the middle school is having a dance – maybe he’ll bug Sammy about that later – someone’s missing a cat, the local video store is hiring, and… he stops and frowns as he sees a flyer with Trish’s face on it. Missing two days. It’s cropped and there’s an arm around her shoulder, perfectly manicured fingernails handing over her bubblegum pink top and a best friends bracelet on a delicate wrist. Macy, then, and her picture will probably be joining Trish’s before long. He wonders if people will assume they both ran away, like maybe Trish went and after she’d been gone a few days, Macy decided to join her.

He should probably find a way to spread that rumor without it coming back to him, maybe buy them some time before they start searching the woods for a body.

He turns around to head back to the apartment, bury his head in daytime drama, maybe start a soap opera. He can tell Sammy about it in the car and bug the shit out of John.

Instead, he stops as he sees the bar across the street. It’s old, beat up looking and not open for another forty five minutes, but it says it has pool. Dean doesn’t play pool. John doesn’t take them with him to bars, because he says Hunters frequent bars. He wouldn’t mind if it was just Dean, but he can’t risk Sammy and he won’t leave Sammy alone in a motel room to take Dean with him.

John’s game of choice is poker. He tried to teach Dean once, but Dean’s no good at it. Best he can tell, poker is half luck and his luck is shit. If he had any kind of luck whatsoever, he’d be sitting at a table with his dad instead of the demon wearing him. That had earned him a kick in the shins hard enough to have him limping for a few hours. Either John’s decided to be offended by the implication that Dean would prefer his dad to the demon, or he’s looking for excuses to hurt Dean, or he’s getting tired of Dean’s smart mouth, or all three, or something else entirely. It’s not like Dean really understands what motivates John half the time. Money, sex, murder. Beyond that, it’s a mystery.

So, yeah, John doesn’t play pool, but Dean thinks his dad might have. He maybe remembers his dad with a pool queue in his hand, talking to someone while Dean kept Sammy distracted. It’s enough for him.

He walks around while he waits. There’s a park he would have taken Sammy to a few years ago, a waffle house with a burnt out ‘L.’ He’s on his way back to the bar when John pulls up next to him, stops the car with the window rolled down.

Dean steps up, but doesn’t get in. Instead, he leans over with his arms on the top of the car. “What?”

It isn’t meant to be belligerent, or maybe it is, because now that he sees him again, Dean’s suddenly aware of how very pissed he is about Trish. John shoves the door open, but it only goes an inch before catching on Dean’s arms. “Get in.”

“I was gonna play pool.”

“Get in.” John shoves at the door again.

Dean makes a show of rolling his eyes before sliding into the passenger seat. “What?”

Instead of answering, John drives them back and parks them in front of the apartment. Dean doesn’t wait for an order to get out of the car. They usually wait until the middle of the night to skip town, but there have been a few times John felt the need to drag them out of school midday. He’s got the bag at the door before John even makes it up, which is record time and he’d be impressed with himself if he wasn’t so angry.

John looks at the bag and back at Dean. “You’re upset.”

“No shit.” He opens the fridge and grabs the lunch meat out to make sandwiches they can eat on the road. No point wasting good food.

“It’s about the girl.”

It takes a few breathes for him not to throw the mustard, because that would end badly and he doesn’t want to show up to get Sammy with anything broken. It would seriously undermine the ‘he isn’t going to kill us’ angle he’s been working.

“Yes, okay? Yes, it’s about the girl. I do Hunters, John, grown men and women who can defend themselves not scared girls you picked up at the mall for fun. That’s just… I don’t do that.”

“You do what I say you do.” There’s a tension in John’s voice that’s all demon and Dean thinks he should probably be scared, but he can’t quite get there.

“I do the job. That’s our deal. I do the job and I take care of Sammy and…”

“The job’s changed.”

“I know! Not innocent people, though. You said collecting souls from people who sold them. Not teenage girls dumb enough to fall for your pick up lines and that’s another thing. Pick up people your own age. You are at least twenty years too old to be hitting that.”

John’s eye twitches. “Are you done?”

“Yes!” He can’t get anything else into words, anyway, so he’ll see what John has to say and go from there.

“I didn’t pick her up for fun, Dean. I picked her up to see how you would react.”

“Why?”

“People sell their souls for all sorts of reasons, Dean. It isn’t always about money or power or sex. I needed to know what you would do when it was the mother that couldn’t let her child die. The little girl who just wanted Daddy to stop touching her. The boy that would do anything for his little brother.” Dean feels the last one like a punch to the gut, just like John means it to, because there’s no doubt in his mind that what he’s done to take care of Sammy – to be _allowed_ to take care of Sammy – is as good as selling his soul.

He can’t do that, though. He can’t help kill innocent people – desperate people, but innocent - just because John tells him to. Except he will and they both know it now.

John’s smiling and it isn’t pleasant. “Don’t worry, you didn’t disappoint me. Not entirely. We can work on it. Pack up the car so we can get Sammy.”


	15. Chapter 15

John doesn’t immediately start picking up hitchhikers to ‘work on it.’  Dean’s stupidly grateful for that.  He’s starting to realize he’s stupidly grateful for a lot of things.  Sammy moves on to different serial killers. Dahmer is replaced by Gacy and when Dean points out John likes the ladies, Sammy pales a little, but quickly moves on to Bundy. 

It’s cute, really, that Sammy thinks he can learn anything from true crime novels.  He flips through a few of them while Sammy’s in the shower or doing homework and it’s interesting, but Dean has to live it, so he’d rather not have the outside perspective.  It’s like going to the slaughter house before you eat a hamburger and he’s still going to eat the hamburger, but he probably won’t enjoy it nearly as much.

Despite not picking up anyone to kill, John insists on dragging Dean with him whenever he isn’t going to be gone more than a day.  They always make it back in time to pick up Sammy.  It takes Dean a while to figure out what John’s doing and when he does, he has to ask to make sure he’s right, because John can’t really be… but he is.  He’s trying to teach Dean how to socialize.  In specific, he’s showing him how to charm the pants off people he’s just met.  Not for sex, or, well, not _just_ for sex.  Dean’s been left alone in the bar while John makes use of the car often enough to know that’s part of it, but it’s more about getting them to trust him.

Not that Dean’s averse to the idea, but John’s spent most of their lives isolating them from everyone – moving them around constantly so the only friend they ever really have is each other, in Dean’s case going so far as to kill people he’s formed even a physical relationship with because Dean didn’t clear it with him first.  When John confirms this, Dean laughs in his face.  Probably not his smartest move and he spends half an hour rubbing his twisted wrist while John chats up the bartender.

Part of Dean wants to be insulted, because he can be charming.  Sometimes.  Okay, maybe not.  He’s never really tried.  The girls he goes for always go for him first and the people he gets on with – and he’s using that term lightly – are people like Tyler who break kneecaps for a living.

So a little instruction probably is in order, but Dean isn’t in a hurry to test that particular skill set.  He prefers reading up on cars, poking fun at Sammy for his serial killer obsession and he’s getting used to being alone some of the time.  It’s still suffocating, but mostly, he’s okay with it.

There’s only three more months to summer.  Until they don’t have to settle down anywhere and if John’s given Dean a reprieve from this new aspect of his job, it won’t last long after school lets out.

 

 

*****

 

 

He doesn’t move them much in the last three months – just twice – and Sammy’s a little suspicious, but not ungrateful.  There’s a routine, though.  Regardless of how complacent John has been recently, he’ll want to start moving as soon as school lets out, so they pack their bags the night before.

Sammy zips up the last one and Dean grabs him from behind, arm around his neck, knuckle digging into his brother’s scalp.  He lets go after he’s wrenched a few undignified squeaks from Sammy.  “Congratulations, little brother, you survived middle school.”

“I’ve survived worse.”  Sammy rubs his head and eyes Dean with playful mistrust.  The words, though, sting a little, because Dean knows Sammy’s not lying, even if he didn’t mean it that way.  The hurt must have shown, either that or Sammy knows him too well, because the next thing he says is, “Your cooking comes to mind.”

“Oh yeah?”  Like it’s a threat, which it kind of is.

 Sammy’s never been one to back down from a challenge, “Yeah.”

For a moment, the room is still, then Dean launches himself at Sammy and they end up on the bed, Dean struggling to pin Sammy’s arms above his head with one hand while the other digs itself into his brother’s arm pits.  Sammy kicks and thrashes, his knees beating into Dean’s back. 

Finally, he can’t breathe and pants out between laughs, “Okay, okay!”

Dean takes a second to get one more dig in, then sits back on Sammy’s thighs and waits.  It’s been a while since they did this – too many ups and downs and Sammy being angry and Dean feeling guilty – so he’s forgotten the rules, one of the biggest being, don’t let go of Sammy’s hands until he’s called a truce, because Dean likes to give Sammy the benefit of the doubt and as far as Dean’s concerned, Sammy walks on water, but in truth, the kid isn’t afraid to play dirty.

The second his ass is resting against Sammy’s legs, hands shove at his chest and he’s flat on his back, Sammy on top of him, digging long, skinny fingers into Dean’s neck where it makes him convulse.  “Little shit!”

They roll around the bed, then off it.  Dean could get the upper hand if he wanted, probably, but it’s more fun to let Sammy think he’s winning for a few seconds – the smile alone is worth it.  The surprise on his face when Dean flips them back around is even better.

“Dean, stop!  Dean, please, come on, seriously, I’m gonna pee.  Dean!”

When he pulls back this time, he keeps Sammy’s wrists firmly pressed over his head, leering down at his brother and they’re both a little sweaty and smiling, only Sammy’s smile kind of wavers after a second, into something a little more serious and maybe a little confused.

“You boys done?”

Dean’s off Sammy so fast, he hits the wall with jarring force.  “Yeah, yes… sir.”

He cringes at the word ‘sir,’ because he’s never called John that and he’s not sure why he did just then, except the look on Sammy’s face and the tone of John’s voice made him feel like he’d done something wrong.  Like when he was caught ditching class and used ‘sir’ because the coach that had found him had the power to call John about it and he really didn’t want that to happen.

Sammy doesn’t seem to notice the slip, though, or doesn’t think anything of it as he sits up, face a little flushed with exertion, but otherwise fine.  John, though… John notices.  His eyebrows raise and his mouth quirks in that way that says he likes what he’s heard and Dean groans inwardly.  There’s no way he’s calling John ‘sir,’ not in this lifetime.

John doesn’t mention it, though, instead, he says, “Get the bags in the car.”

“What?!”  Sammy sounds just about as indignant as Dean feels.  “I have school tomorrow!”

“And I’ve got a job.  Bags in the car.”

“But…”

“Dean, take care of it.”

Then he’s gone and Sammy rounds on Dean, looking like he’s going to actually try and argue it, like Dean really has a say in this.  He stops, though, shoulders sagging in defeat, because they both know it won’t matter.  John says they’re leaving means they’re leaving.  It’s not like the last day is good for anything, anyway.  Last days are for saying goodbye and there’s no one Sammy really needs to say goodbye to.  At least, Dean hopes not.

They get the car packed while John makes calls, presumably about his job.  Sammy all but throws himself in the back seat when they’re done, arms over his chest, face set in a scowl.  Bellow that, though, Dean sees something else.  He sees the way Sammy keeps himself too still, the way he digs his finger nails into his own arms, the way he bites at his lip and his eyes move minutely over the back of the seat in front of him.  Scared. Sammy is scared. 

He didn’t want to skip the last day, because he knows this summer is going to be different like last summer was.  They don’t talk much about it, but Sammy knows things are worse for Dean in the summer and he knows this time he’s going to have to tag along. Maybe John said Sammy doesn’t have to get his hands dirty, but that probably doesn’t make it any better.  Sammy’s soft like that.  It’s not really a good thing, considering their current line of work, but Dean loves that about him.  He’s fought to let Sammy be whoever he wants to be, even it means he has to fight that much harder to let him keep being that.

John’s voice raises outside the car – something about doing his job and if it’s that fucking urgent the person on the other end should have done it themselves days ago – then slams the flip phone shut and gets in the drive’s side.  He takes a moment to look at Dean, then Sammy in the rearview.

“Sulking already?”  Sammy flips him off and John shakes his head.  “It’s gonna be a long summer.”

Dean hates agreeing with him.

 

 

*****

 

 

He’s driving in circles.  Well, okay, not a circle exactly, but it sure as hell feels that way.  John isn’t stopping anywhere more than a few hours at a time.  They sleep in the car, which is okay sometimes, but after two weeks, they’re cramped and achy from not having the room to stretch out.  Bad enough for Dean, who’s got the front seat, but Sammy’s squashed up in the back and about to have some kind of epic growth spurt if the amount of food he’s packing in is anything to go by.

They’re stopped at a diner two weeks after taking off and Sammy’s on his second burger and eyeing Dean’s fries.  Dean’s waiting for him to go for them again so he can smack Sammy’s hand away when John’s phone goes off and he curses loud enough to get scathing looks from the other patrons before taking it outside.

Dean’s wants to let it go, he really does, but he can’t.  John may not need to sleep, but they do.  He steals a fry off Sammy’s plate on principle and grins at Sammy’s disbelieving glare.  “Be right back.”

John’s walked to the far end of the building, not far enough away to lose sight of the front door, but enough that he can seethe into the phone and no one can hear what he’s saying.  Dean catches a few words as he’s coming up.  “Kiss my ass,” is the last thing he says before cutting the call off and turning to Dean.  “What?”

For a second, Dean considers going right back inside and addressing this at a later time, but John’s eye twitches and he’s already there.  “We need sleep.”

“You sleep.”

“No, real sleep.  And a shower, it’s been like four days, dude, we reek.”

John scowls, “I’m not your dude.”

“Whatever, the point is, we need a break.”  When an answer isn’t forthcoming, he presses.  “What’s the big deal, anyway?  What did this guy do to get on His radar?”

“Doesn’t matter what he did.”

“Why’s that?”

John runs his thumb over the buttons of his phone before tucking it back into his jeans.  “Souls are hell’s currency.  The more souls you have, the more power, the more power, the more pull.  What Azazel’s planning… he’s gonna need a lot of pull.”

“Yeah?”  It’s the first time John’s mentioned Yellow Eyes’ plan in a while.  “Why’s that?”

“Gonna piss people off.  Well, not people.  Not anymore.  Demons.”  He runs a hand through his hair and side-eyes Dean.  “Guy we’re collecting has been using magic.  He’s not moving around, he’s faking us out.”

Us, not me, but Dean isn’t correcting him right now, not when John’s being so talkative.  “And the call?”

“I have friends in high places.”

“Oh, I’ll just bet you do.”  Dean looks back at the diner and he can just make out the back of Sammy’s head.  “So does that mean we can stop for the night?”

“Not yet.  Tomorrow.  I’ll be close enough then.”

“Right.  Are you gonna need me?”  John wants him there, Dean’s read all those signals loud and clear, but there’s more here than just that.  There’s Sammy.  John said if he goes, Sammy goes and Dean hopes that’s enough to dissuade him.

 “Maybe.” 

It should piss him off, not getting a straight answer, but he’s used to it.  Besides, he does have the promise of a real bed and a shower tomorrow.

“Should I settle the tab?”

John doesn’t answer in words, but he digs out forty and hands it to Dean.  Inside, Dean’s fries are gone and Sammy looks guilt free, but Dean knows better.  He still gets Sammy a chocolate shake for the road and pockets the ten dollars in change he has left over after  the tip.  John doesn’t ask about it.

 

 

*****

 

 

A fifteen minute shower in steaming hot water and ten hours of sleep and Dean feels almost human again.  Sammy takes thirty minutes in the shower and Dean’s like ninety percent sure only half of that was about getting clean, but the kid’s fourteen, so he doesn’t say anything.

By ten they’re both up, but now that they’ve spent a few hours outside the car, they realize how rank their clothes are.  They don’t actually own two weeks’ worth of clothes, so everything’s been worn once, if not twice.  John hasn’t called since he dropped them off the night before.

The good thing about living out of two duffel bags is they can do all their clothes in just one load.  They fit it in and sit down to eat the pastries Dean bought at the convenience store next door while they wait for it to finish.  It’s empty, just the two of them.

He can’t stop thinking about what John said.  ‘Not people.  Not anymore.’  There were implications there, ones he doesn’t like.  It implies demons were people once.  It implies John was a person once.

“So, he’s working a job?”  Dean startles from his thoughts.  Sammy’s sitting next to him, his sixth book on Bundy unopened in his lap – seriously, he has to run out eventually – nervously picking at the hem of his shirt.

Cautiously, because he can count at least ten ways this can blow up in his face, he answers, “Yeah.”

“Oh.”  Sammy gets one of the strings between his fingers, rolls it around and pushes it up under one finger nail.  “What kind of job?”

“The kind that’ll get worse before it gets better.”  Blood, pain, lots of it.  John doesn’t like being played and Dean can’t decide if he admires whoever it is for being able to run them in circles or if he just thinks he’s stupid, because of course now John’s going to take it out of his ass.  Or his lower intestine.  Probably his knee caps, too.  He loves going for the knee caps.  Lots of pain, little risk of them bleeding out too quick or passing out.

“He’ll want you there.”  Sammy’s voice is small, smaller even than fourteen and that’s small enough.  It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to get where Sammy’s going with this.  If Dean goes, Sammy goes. 

“We don’t know he needs me…”

“He will.”  Dean stops, because Sammy sounds so sure.  “I can tell.  The way he looks at you right before he drags you off, like he’s trying to decide if he should.  He’s been looking at you like that for weeks now.”

Okay and see, Dean knows that.  He’s seen that look, he just hadn’t realized Sammy has.

“He’s been looking at me like that, too.”

“No, no, no, Sammy, look at me.”  He waits and when Sammy doesn’t, he takes his brother’s shoulders.  “Sammy, _look_ at me.”

When Sammy does look at him, for the first time in a long time, he really considers that he’s making the wrong choice here.  Sammy is scared.  He’s got tears in his eyes and he doesn’t look like the defiant, strong fourteen year old Dean’s been watching him grow into.  He looks like he’s a little kid afraid of the dark and he should be afraid – there are a lot of things to be afraid of – but not of John.

Dean doesn’t know everything about John’s instructions as far as Sammy’s concerned, but he does know John has never, not once, threatened to physically harm Sammy to get Dean to cooperate.  He’s threatened to leave with Sammy, sure, but never hurt him.  That says a lot.

“Sammy, you’ve got to believe me.  He will never hurt you.”

“What?  Like he never hurts you?”  And at least that has some of the defiance Dean is used to in it.

“No, because… Sammy, I can’t explain this in a way you’re gonna believe, so you just have to trust me, okay?  You are important to him.”  Sammy opens his mouth to argue, but Dean cuts him off.  “No, you are.  You ever wonder why you don’t go with us?  He won’t risk you.  He won’t risk someone finding out about you and taking you away from him.”

“Then why…?”

“I don’t know.  There are a lot of things I don’t know, but I do know he won’t hurt you, not really.  So, if he tells you to do something you don’t want to do, you tell him no.  You fight him and you tell him no and you don’t do it and if he ever lays a hand on you, Sammy, I will personally walk your ass out that door, even if that means putting a bullet in him.”

He means that too, if he has to choose between his dad and Sammy, it’s Sammy, he just hopes it doesn’t come to that.

Sammy wipes the wet out of his eyes and nods, still a little shaky, but he doesn’t look like he’s going to cry anymore.  Dean wraps his arms around Sammy’s shoulder and Sammy leans into it.

It’s going to be okay.  It has to be.  He’ll make it okay.

 

 

*****

 

John wakes them up at around three.  They hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but by the time two o’clock rolled around the local channels were all infomercials and static and even sitting up, fully dressed and ready to walk out the door, they’d dozed.  The key card sliding into the door wakes Dean, though.  He goes from dead to the world to wide awake in the amount of time it takes John to open the door.

Sammy doesn’t stir right away, not until John said, “Get in the car, leave the bags.” before turning back around to wait for them.

“Come on, kid.”

Still groggy and only half aware, Sammy lets Dean get him up out of bed.  It confirms his suspicions about the growth spurt.  When he’s about to hit one, he generally eats his weight twice over three times a day and sleeps like he’s in a comma.  There’s a drool stain the size of Dean’s hand on his shoulder.

Sammy’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes when they get in the car.  He doesn’t say anything, though, just blinks around the car, trying to piece it together in his sleep addled brain.  Dean gives him a minute before reaching back to pat his ruffled hair.  “Go to sleep, it could be a while.”

That’s when the thumping starts.  Dean and Sammy both follow the sounds to the trunk and John sighs, putting the car in reverse.  Sammy mouths, “What the fuck?!” to Dean and there’s no trace of sleep left.  Dean really wishes he could answer, because if that’s what he thinks it is, it’s a first.  John never, ever brings his work home with him and he sure as hell doesn’t drive around with it in the trunk of the car.  That’s just asking for trouble.

Dean turns to John, eyes wide and barely gets his mouth open before John’s hand on the radio dial turns the music up to ear bleed level.  He reaches over to turn it down, only to have the hand swatted away, hard enough to leave finger length red welt on his wrist.  He rubs at the marks and sends Sammy an apologetic shrug.  John doesn’t want to talk about it, they aren’t talking.  At least Sammy understands, but he sits too stiff and too straight in the back, occasionally looking over his shoulder at the trunk, even when it’s gone silent.

They drive for about half an hour, a good distance from civilization – far enough at least that they won’t be heard if this gets loud.  It’s nice to know while John’s busy being a complete idiot, he’s at least thinking about the logistics of not getting caught doing it.  He doesn’t look at either of them as he shuts off the engine and gets out, leaving the door open as he heads for the trunk.

“Sammy?”  Sammy had started following John’s movements around the side of the car and looks at Dean now, eyes impossibly wide.  “You remember what I said?  You don’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

The trunk pops open and now they can hear muffled yelling.  Not screaming, not yet.  John closes the trunk and calls, “Dean!”

“Just… keep your head down and try not to listen,” which is a futile request, because Sammy and no matter how terrified he is, he’s also curious.

Sammy nods, though, a testament to the fact that they are always placating each other before Dean gets out.

There’s a man on the ground, hands his back.  It’s awkward so Dean figures he’s tied up or handcuffed and there’s tape over his mouth.  Even kneeling, it’s obvious the guy isn’t much bigger than Dean, if at all.  He’s thin and wiry and with John standing just behind him, knife in hand, the guy looks like he’s ten seconds from pissing himself.  Not that Dean blames him, but he can’t afford to look put off by this.

He squares his shoulders, stands a little straighter and levels his gaze at John in what he hopes looks like a challenge.  “What?”

“This is Mr. Sanchez.  He works at an IT office on Long Island.”

“That’s fascinating.”  He wants whatever this is over with.  Now.

“Mr. Sanchez has a debt he needs to pay and you’re going to help him pay it.”

Dean considers telling him to fuck off, but it isn’t like this is avoidable.  Eventually, John will find a way to force him.  He sighs and holds out his hand.  “Fine, give me my gun.”

“No gun.”

“Okay, knife, whatever.  Can we get this over with?”

“No knife.  Consider this a practical exam.  Mr. Sanchez,” John kneels down behind the man and cuts the ropes from around his arm, “see those trees over there?”

The man looks over, squints a little and nods.

“You’re going to run and if you make it to those trees and I’ll let you go – even give you a few days’ head start before I come looking for you again.”

Mr. Sanchez doesn’t look thrilled at the idea, but he does look determined.  His gaze is flitting between Dean and the trees, trying to decide if he can make it.  Dean can tell him right now, he can’t.  He’s been in the trunk of the car for over half an hour.  He’ll be sore, cramped, and there’s no way he can get the blood pumping to his legs fast enough to outrun anyone.  Doesn’t matter, though, because he knows it’s his only shot and he’ll take it.

John steps back and holds up his hand, fingers ticking down one at a time, “Five, four…”

Mr. Snachez is up and running before he gets to three and Dean hesitates.  He looks back at the car where Sammy is supposed to not be watching, but zeros in on those bright green eyes, all the same, wide with disbelief between the gap of the open trunk.

“Three.”

His fists clench and unclench while he tries to decide what to do.

“Two.”

Sammy shakes his head.  A small gesture and Dean knows he doesn’t necessarily have to.  Worst case, John kills Mr. Sanchez himself and drives off with Sammy, leaving Dean to walk back to the motel room.

“One.”

He bounces once of the balls of his feet and says, “Shit!” before taking off in pursuit.  Dean’s sneaker pound into the ground and he starts gaining on his target and his heart is pounding in his chest from more than just exertion.  The biggest problem here isn’t that John’s asking him to do this, it’s that he’s asking him to do it in front of Sammy.  Of course, that’s probably the point.

John knows Dean almost kind of really likes the adrenaline rush of a challenge and this isn’t some helpless girl tied up at John’s mercy.  This guy, whoever he is, has to be smart to be evading John, even if he was using magic.  At the very least, he’s smart enough to know what he was getting himself into and honestly, Dean taking him down is a mercy.  So, doing this isn’t a problem.  Sammy seeing him so this, that’s a problem.

He gets close enough to take Mr. Sanchez down.  They fall together in a heap on the ground.  Dean loses the upper hand for a second, long enough for the guy to nearly get back up to his feet, but Dean grabs his leg at the ankle, sending him falling back down and then Dean’s on top.  It’s over from there.  Dean gets in a few hits against the side of his face that jar his arm so hard, he’s going to need to ice his wrist later.  Then he gets two hands around the throat, trying to dig thumbs in where John showed him, but it’s harder on a moving, struggling target.  It’s harder when the throbbing in his wrist is making it weaker and he doesn’t have demonic power backing him.

Fuck it.  Sanchez is just dazed enough that Dean can reach back and get the knife he keeps in a strap under his jeans.  Knives are easier.  Messy, though.  He’s got spatter all over himself and he’ll have to burn the shirt, but the jeans were getting tight anyway, so no great loss there – but quick.

John comes up behind him as he’s getting to his feet, rubbing his wrist.  “What was that?”

“What was what?  I got the job done.”

“I said no weapons.”

Dean shrugs, “You’re the one always telling me to cheat.”

He doesn’t smile, but he also doesn’t smack Dean upside the back of his head as he walks past, so Dean counts it as a win and goes for the still open trunk of the car.  Sammy isn’t watching anymore.  He strips his shirt off, tucks it in a plastic bag and grabs the spare clean one.  His jeans aren’t too bad and he doesn’t feel like stripping down completely, so he just wipes them off, his shoes too, even though he doesn’t see anything, and then scrubs his face until he’s gotten off at least one layer of skin.

They haven’t talked about it, but the usual routine is Dean takes care of the body while John sits back and criticizes him whenever he gets bored.  Now, they have Sammy and that changes things.  John has already started with the body and Dean doesn’t even look back as he gets in the car.

He takes a second to just breathe the inside of the car in before turning to his brother.  Sammy is hunched down and curled in on himself, eyes impossibly wide.  It’s like the night with Tyler all over again and Dean doesn’t want to spend months coaxing Sammy back into trusting him.

“Sammy…”

“Shut up.”

“You…”

“Just shut up, okay?”  It mostly dark out, but the moons pretty full and Sammy’s cheeks take on a pink tinge of anger or something like it and Dean decides to let it drop.


	16. Chapter 16

“You lied to me!”

To his credit, Sammy’s waited until John’s cleared out before turning on Dean.  It takes an entire four days, but he waits with the patience of a vulture circling prey.  He stares Dean down with angry narrowed eyes and synched up eyebrows and he waits.  The minute John says he’ll be back, though, with the dismissive wave like he always does when he’s gonna be gone for a few days or weeks, Sammy gets up.  The roar of the engine isn’t even completely faded into the background.

“You lie to me and I… god, I fucking _let_ you.”

“Sammy…”

“No, you don’t get to ‘Sammy’ your way out of this, Dean.  What was that?!”  Dean opens his mouth, doesn’t even get the first syllable out.  “You… you enjoyed that.  Don’t tell me you didn’t.  Don’t lie to me.  I _saw_ you.”

“Would you just…”

“Just what?  Pretend that didn’t happen?  Pretend you didn’t…”

“No, I know what I did!  I do.”  Sammy stops talking and Dean latches onto the momentary silence to say the only thing he can.  “I know I ended someone’s life.  I know I’ve done it before and I know I’ll do it again.  I don’t even think…” don’t lie, Sammy doesn’t want to be lied to.  “No, I know I won’t feel bad about it and, Sammy, I’m sorry, but…”

“How can you say that?  He was a person, Dean.  He had a family and a life and you just slit his throat in the middle of nowhere and hid his body and you’re telling me you don’t feel bad about it?”

Dean hesitates before saying, “Yes.”

“You… how can you…?”

“Because what I did was quick.”  Sammy backs up a step, pale and tinged green.  “What I did was over in seconds.  What _he_ would have done, it would have taken _hours_ , Sammy.  John was pissed the guy gave use the runaround and if he hadn’t thought it would be more amusing to make me do it with you watching… Sammy, you don’t want to know what that looks like, what it _sounds_ like.”

Sammy opens his mouth to argue and Dean cuts him off, “You can be pissed, I get it.  Go ahead and be mad, give me the silent treatment or the cold shoulder or whatever the hell it is you think you need to do, but it won’t change anything.  He’s dead and I’m not going to regret that I did it.  That ship sailed a long time ago.”

It might be too much, because Sammy is deathly pale, but Dean’s too worn thin to do more than throw himself on the bed and grab the remote.  He stabs the buttons viscously until he sees Jerry Springer, because no matter how bad things get, that show never fails to make him feel better about himself.  Sure, his mom’s dead, he’s lost his father, his brother kind of hates him, and he kills on the regular, which now apparently includes innocent people, but at least his wife isn’t pregnant with his best friend’s baby.  So, things could be worse.

After a few minutes, Sammy sits on the edge of the bed.  A little while later, he curls up beside him and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder, which is a surprise, but not unwelcome.  They don’t talk anymore about it, because Dean doesn’t want to lie by saying he’s sorry and he doesn’t want to risk the tentative truce.  He knows this doesn’t mean they’re okay.  They’re probably as far from okay as you can get, but he doesn’t know how to make it better.

Tilting his head down, he kisses the top of Sammy’s head and Sammy relaxes into him.  Whatever this is, it’s going to have to do for now.

 

 

*****

 

 

John pulls Dean aside when he gets back from leaving them to stew after Mr. Sanchez and asks how Sammy’s doing. Dean is honest in saying he has no idea.  He’s not fooled into thinking Sammy’s okay with what’s going on, but he’s also not sure what the kid is thinking and he _is_ thinking something.  He knows that look on Sammy’s face – the furrowed brows and narrowed eyes and thinned out lips, quiet for hours and concentrating just to the left of whatever’s in front of him.  Yeah, Sammy’s thinking, but Dean doesn’t have a clue what and if he asks, he knows Sammy will play innocent and it’s not like Dean can actually prove anything.

John moves them around like normal, but he’s lazy about it, too relaxed for it to be because they’re trailing someone.  So, Dean figures they’re killing time until he gets orders.

It takes a week for John to pull over, set a bottle on a rock and hands Sammy a gun.  Dean’s leaning against the side of the car, going for casual and failing miserably.  Sammy looks at the gun, puts it on the trunk and gets back in the car without a word, slamming the door hard enough that the gun does a slow slide off the trunk and hits the ground with a thud.

Dean ducks his head to hide his smile.  He doesn’t think he’s ever been prouder of Sammy.  It’s totally worth getting hit upside the head by John, who says, “That was your fault.  Don’t bother denying it.”

Dean shrugs and gets in the car after him.  He isn’t denying anything.  John may be pissed at him, he may shove Dean around, but he won’t do permanent damage – at least, not unless Dean pulls a weapon on him again and that isn’t happening.  Ever.  Dean’s wrist still aches when it gets too cold out.

They relax into the routine.  Sammy goes back to reading his books on serial killers instead of staring daggers at the back of John’s head and Dean digs through the glove compartment and finds the manual for the Impala.  It’s boring, uneventful and Dean finds himself wishing John would get orders, then trying to unwish it, because that’s wishing someone would die and as fucked up as he is, he refuses to be that fucked up.

He isn’t leaving Sammy alone with John, so there’s no time for a quickie while the demon isn’t watching, but he does make a show of flirting with any half decent waitress when they stop long enough to actually sit down for a meal.  By mid-August, he’s actually getting pretty good at it.  It’s fifty-fifty whether they take the bait or give him a side eye and ignore him completely, which John apparently finds amusing to no end.

Finally, they drag ass into a town just outside of Milwaukee and settle in for school to start.  It’s about as rough a neighborhood as they’re used to, but there’s a dedicated bedroom that Sammy and him are going to share, so he likes it here, kind of hopes they stay a few months at least.

The whole first day of school is John getting Sammy registered, but Dean figures he’ll skip out after that – with Sammy being fourteen and Dean being legal, he doesn’t have to worry so much about appearances – but he also isn’t surprised when he comes home from dropping Sammy off the next day and John’s there, drinking coffee that’s probably spiked with something alcoholic. 

John likes to keep him on his toes and if he thinks he’s getting predictable, the demon might decide to step up his game and Dean’s already having enough trouble with the playing field as it is.  So when Dean opens the door and John’s leaning against the kitchen counter, he narrows his eyes suspiciously and closes to door slowly behind him, like he thinks it’s a trick.  Actually, he does think it’s a trick.

“You’re still here?  I’m sure there’s a prostitute somewhere out there that could use twenty bucks.”

John’s mouth twitched.  “Cute.”

Dean keeps one eye on John as he makes food – a frozen sausage and egg biscuit thing that tastes like cardboard soaked in grease and a Coke.  Breakfast of champions.  John watches him, but doesn’t say anything.  He finishes his coffee, sets the mug down and Dean stares down at the table and chews deliberately slow.

He’s barely put the last of the bite in his mouth when John says, “Come on.”

There are a lot of things Dean would rather do – like drive a fork through his eye, or, more realistic through someone else’s – but he follows along, anyway, mostly because there isn’t any reason to fight it just yet and it isn’t like he has anything better to do.  They walk to the end of the walkway leading up to the apartments and John sits on the curb, motioning for Dean to join him.

He doesn’t say anything right away and it’s five minutes of watching people go about their morning routine before he does.  “You don’t read people.”

Dean tries not to be offended by that and fails.  “I read people just fine.”

“No, you don’t.  You fumble your way through it.  If you want to be more than bait, you have to be able to read a target before you point a gun at their face.”

“I can read you.”

“I’m a demon, this is people.  It’s different.”  He gives Dean a moment to think about that and as much as it pains Dean to admit it, John’s right.  He can read John, he can read Bad Touch Lady, he can read demons pretty well, but people are something else entirely.  He doesn’t know what motivates them.  “You want an easy target, you have to know what an easy target looks like.”

He points at a girl walking across the street.  “Watch her, the way she looks at herself in every window she passes, but not openly staring, just a quick glance and every time, she adjusts something – her skirt, her purse, her hair.  Her purse is a knockoff, Louis Vuitton.  She either wants the nice stuff and can’t afford it, or she’s pragmatic enough not to spend the money on a designer brand, but still wants to look like she does.  How old do you think she is?”

Dean frowns, because hell if he knows.  “Mid-twenties?”

“Mid-thirties.  You’re looking at the clothes and the hair.  Focus on the hands and face when trying to determine age.  Hands work best, people don’t put makeup on their hands.  Not usually.”  Now that he’s looking, he sees it, the little wrinkle here and there that say she’s older than she’s dressing.  “Twenty year olds tend to be more gullible than older women.  You look young as it is, if you hit on anyone over twenty-five, they’re probably gonna be suspicious.”

“Same go for guys?”

He chances a look over and there’s a slow smile spreading over John’s face. “Guys are different.”

Dean rolls the lose gravel under his shoes.  “Most of our targets are men.”

“So far, but then up until now, most of our targets have been Hunters.  It’s a different game now.  Girls sell their soul just as often as men.”

That’s probably true, Dean wouldn’t know, but he does know that at the end of the day, John prefers killing men.  The few times they’ve come across a female Hunter, it hasn’t been nearly as violent and drawn out.  Dean kind of wonders what John has against men, but then he also wonders if there’s a reason at all or if it’s just some demonic thing.

John points to another woman, coming out the diner down the street.  “Read her.”

 

 

****

 

 

They spend the morning on the curb, a few hours inside cooling off, then hit the bar for before getting Sammy.  It’s a new routine and one Dean… doesn’t hate, actually.  He wants to hate it, but John’s being downright agreeable most of the time.  He buys Dean the occasional beer, teaches him how to play pool, and all the while pointing out little things Dean can use to read the random people that come in.  John’s scary good at it.  He has a nine out of ten success rate in calling what kind of drink someone’s going to order.

On the weekends, John doesn’t bother them.  There’s an actual mall not too far away – small and dilapidated, but with an arcade, a bookstore, and a Taco Bell.  While Sammy spends a few hours in Walden’s, reading in the aisles, Dean finds himself practicing his new skill set.  He’s not sure if he’s doing it right, because John isn’t there to correct him, but he’s doing it well enough that by week four he manages to zero in on one of the cashiers

She works there part time, because he doesn’t see her often.  She keeps a book bag loaded with college texts behind the register, so she goes to college.  The only one even remotely near this bum-fuck town is the community college.  So, she must go there, but live here, probably still at home.  She keeps herself meticulous, but the books and her bag are beaten all to hell, so they’re probably second hand. 

He’s in the process of accessing her clothes themselves, when Sammy interrupts him.  “Are you checking her out?”

“Hm?”

“Margot.  Are you checking her out?”

“Her name’s Margot?”

Sammy’s already tight lips, thin out even further.  “It’s on her name tag.”

So it is.  She sees him looking and Dean smiles at her.  Her cheeks go pink and she smiles back before looking down at her book, sweeping short hair behind one ear.  It’s early on a Sunday and the traffic in the mall won’t pick up until much later.

“She’s studying childcare.  Her parents are divorced.  She’s living with her dad because the tuition here is cheaper than California.  Her dad thinks she’s too smart to waste it on being a teacher, her mother loves the idea.  She graduates in two years and is hoping to get a job in California so she can be with her mom, but chances are, she’ll end up here for a few years and when she’s got the credentials, she’ll apply for a California certificate.”

Dean stares at Sammy in open shock.  “How the hell do you know that?”

Sammy looks up from his book.  “I talked to her, genius, while you were looking for topless chicks in magazines the other day.  She’s nice, but she won’t fall for your bullshit pick up lines.”

“Language, Sammy.”  Although, really, Dean knows a challenge when he hears one and everything Sammy has said can be boiled down into two very promising words.  Daddy issues.

Sammy rolls his eyes and goes back to his book while Dean goes to the counter to do his thing.  It doesn’t take much.  Sammy was dead on about those Daddy issues. 

A part of Dean knows leaving Sammy alone in the bookstore is a bad idea.  If John finds out, he’ll be pissed and they’ve been getting along well enough that he doesn’t want to risk that.  Another part of him, the one that hasn’t gotten laid in months, reasons that they don’t necessarily have to leave the store.

It takes him twenty minutes to get her in the backroom and another fifteen before he walks out again, more relaxed than he has been in a long while.  Sammy is waiting for him just to the left of the door, arms crossed over his chest, glaring over a childish pout while Dean flattens out his rumpled shirt, gives Margot a last kiss, takes her number and promises to call.  He might actually, although… probably not.  There’s something uncomfortably like guilt settling into the pit of his stomach at the thought of what John could do, what he could make Dean do, if finds out about her.

When they walk out, Sammy is waiting for him just to the left of the door, arms crossed over his chest, glaring over a childish pout while Dean flattens out his rumpled shirt, gives Margot a last kiss, takes her number with a wink and promise to call that he doesn’t mean.

Sammy dodges Dean’s attempt to ruffle his too hair and Dean smirk.  “Let’s get lunch.  I’m starving.”

“I’m not hungry.”  Which is Sammy for ‘I’m pissed at you,’ because at fourteen, the kid can pack away twice his weight five times a day if they let him. 

“Dude, what’d I do?”

Sammy doesn’t speak until they’re halfway to the apartment and when he does, all he says is.  “You didn’t have to sleep with her.”

Which sets Dean smart-ass meter off and before he can stop himself, he says, “Technically, there wasn’t any sleeping going on.”

Sammy stops long enough to really glare at him, before stomping forward and Dean has to work to keep up with him.  What the hell is he pissed off about, anyway?  Maybe… maybe he liked her?  He did talk to her, enough to know half her life story.  That’s more than Dean’s ever done, even when he kind of almost cares.

He waits until they’re inside and Sammy’s thrown himself on the sofa with his arms folded petulantly over his chest.  Dean takes the cushion next to him and waits a second before driving a soft elbow into Sammy’s ribs.  Sammy uncrossed his arms and shoves Dean off the sofa, doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic when Dean looks up at him from the floor.

Dean heaves himself back up and asks, “Feel better?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry I slept with Margot.”  Slowly, Sammy turns to look at him, just a little as he waits for the rest.  “You should have told me you liked her, I would have backed off.  I mean, she’s way too old for you, but…”

“I don’t like Margot.”  Sammy’s looking at him now, like he’s supposed to understand what that means, which he doesn’t.  “I just… you sleep with stupid people you don’t even know and it’s… stupid.”

For a kid who’s so good with words, that is astonishingly vague.  Dean isn’t even sure where to go with that.

Sammy sighs and lunges forward to grab the remote.  “Forget it.”

As much as Dean wants to figure out what’s eating Sammy, he wants to drop it even more.  Besides, John comes in the front door with his arms draped in more grocery bags than he can count, but Dean clearly sees the sugar heavy cereal box in one of them and Sammy might not be hungry, but he’s fucking starving.

Dragging himself over the back of the sofa, he follows John into the kitchen and grabs the box, tearing into it.  John looks back out into the living room at Sammy sitting on the couch with his arms crossed over his chest, face set in an angry sneer, and looks back, “What’d you do this time?”

“Hell if I know.”  He shoves a handful of Froot Loops in his mouth and talks through it just so he can see John’s eye twitch, then stares openly at the mound of groceries sitting on top of the stove.  “We’re sticking around?”

“Why?”

“’Cause Dean wants to bang Margot at the bookstore again.”  Dean closes his eyes against the urge to send Sammy death glares.  In fact… he steps out of the kitchen and glares openly.  Sammy just shrugs, entirely unimpressed.  “He asked.”

There are very few rules they live by, all of them unspoken, but understood, and Sammy has just broken three of them.   First, John is an asshole and you don’t tell him anything more than he needs to know, which includes who they do and do not bang.  Or, well, who Dean bangs.  Sammy’s only fourteen and he better not be banging anyone or John won’t have to deal with it, Dean’s going to gut the little whore himself.  Second, keep it in the family; they don’t drag strangers into the fucked-up mess that is their lives and they certainly don’t drag Margot from the bookstore into it just because she was an easy lay.  Third – by far the most important and specific to Sammy himself – don’t draw John’s attention to you.  Don’t speak unless you’re asked a direct question, let Dean handle it, that’s what he’s there for.  He takes John’s heat, so Sammy will never have to, except now Dean can see John in his peripheral, mouth twisting into what might be a smile, but it isn’t a pleasant one.  He steps out of the kitchen past Dean and looks at Sammy sitting on the couch, but doesn’t say anything.

It’s ten seconds, then twenty, then forty and Sammy’s starting to look a little nervous, too, when John finally shrugs, “I got a job.  You two are staying here.”

Dean just manages to hold in his sigh of relief, because John’s turned to look at him again and Sammy is doing his best to become one with the sofa.  “How long?”

“A few weeks.  There should be enough in there to keep you going, but I’ll leave money in case.  Normal rules apply.”

“Head down, mouth closed.”

“That’s my boy.”  John reaches out to ruffle Dean’s hair and chuckles on his way into the bathroom when Dean dodges.

He waits until the shower turns on before rounding on Sammy, who has affectively sunk half his body between the two overstuffed cushions.  “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know!”  Sammy struggles to pull himself up.  “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No shit.  You, go to the bedroom and don’t come out until I give the all clear.”

Sammy nods a little frantically and grabs for his bag before starting to make for the bedroom.  He hesitates just inside the door.  “You don’t think… I mean, he wouldn’t hurt Margot, would he?  I know… with Tyler, but that was because you were getting help from someone else behind his back, right?  So…”

He trails off and Dean almost tells him the truth.  He almost says Margot’s got a fifty/fifty chance.  If the job goes well and John’s satisfied, he’ll probably leave her alone, but if the mark gets away, he’ll probably be looking for someone to take it out on and he knows her name and where to find her.  Dean opens his mouth with every intention of being honest, but what comes out is, “Yeah, of course.”

It’s a stupid, useless lie, but seeing Sammy’s relieved smile makes it worth it.  He waits at the table until John comes out, clean and ready for the road.  There aren’t any words exchanged.  John digs through the duffle, drops a few twenties on the table, and walks out.  Dean waits patiently for the rumble of the Impala to fade out into the distance before opening the bedroom door and it’s barely eight in the evening and Sammy is fast asleep, laid out on his stomach with his book still clutched in one hand.

Dean lies down next to him and stares at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way John looked at Sammy while he falls asleep.

 

 

*****

 

 

They don’t see John for three weeks.  Dean uses a little over half the money he was given on food and a new pair of shoes for Sammy, because he hit a growth spurt and if he keeps up, he’s going to look like that crazy cartoon caveman with the gigantic feet.  Dean can’t decide if he hopes Sammy grows into it, because if he does, he’s going to be taller than Dean.

When John finally does show up, he appears to be in a better mood.  He packs them up the same night and Sammy doesn’t say a word.  He hasn’t wanted to go to the bookstore since his blow up and as far as Dean’s concerned, spending the day at home in front of the television is just as good as spending it walking around the mall, so he doesn’t push.  It does, however, mean that he has no idea whether John’s good mood has anything to do with Margot or whether the job just went really well.  He could ask, John would tell him, but he doesn’t really want to know.

 

 

*********

 

 

Dean’s got _Miracle on 34 th Street_ on the television, because it’s two days to Christmas and there’s a movie marathon on public access and Sammy hates Christmas.  Sammy’s tried to turn the television off, but each time he makes a move, Dean tackles him and Sammy’s latest growth spurt left him awkward and he can’t quiet remember where his feet are when he kicks.  He tried it twice during _A Christmas Story_ , again when _Frosty the Snowman_ first came on and now he’s sitting curled on the entire other side of the couch in protest, his eye twitching while he tries to engross himself in yet another book on someone who killed a lot of people.  Dean would be worried, but everyone needs a hobby.

“Sammy.”  He reaches a foot out and kicks Sammy’s knee, to which Sammy pulls his leg away even further and Dean has to slink down the couch – stupid too long couch, it takes up half the damn room – to kick his hip this time.  “Sammy!”

“What!?”

“How many of those books are there?  You’re bound to run out eventually.”

“Yeah?”  Sammy looks back down.  “Maybe when I run out, I’ll write one of my own.”

Dean tries not to look as sick as that makes him feel.  What would John do if Sammy wrote any of this down?  Sammy glances at him, frowns, “What?”

“Nothing.”  Because he knows that the one sure way to get Sammy to do something is to tell him not to.  Besides, it isn’t like they have a computer lying around and Dean’s pretty sure he’ll notice if Sammy starts trying to write a book by hand.  “Hey, you want to get out of here?”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know, get ice cream?  There’s a Dairy Queen two blocks over.”

Sammy stares at his book without moving his eyes, then slowly looks back up at Dean.  “It’s snowing and you want to get ice cream?”

“Don’t hate the dip cone.”

“I’m not hating the dip cone.  I’m hating the idea of walking two blocks in the snow to eat something that’s just as cold as I am.  If I’m walking two blocks, I want something warm – like hot chocolate or coffee.”

Dean scoffs, “No coffee, it’ll stunt your growth.”

Sammy gives him bitch face and shifts on the sofa, his spine a little less stiff, despite the sugar sweet Christmas classic on the television.  “Hypocrite.”

He gives the kid a few minutes to really start getting into the book again, then says, “You know, they have hot chocolate at Dairy Queen.”

Sammy sighs and closes the book, “Fine.”

They don’t actually own winter gear and John isn’t about to drop money on something they won’t need in a few months, so they bundle up in jeans, a long sleeve under shirt, a t-shirt and their hoodies before stepping out in tennis shoes.  Sammy shivers violently at the onslaught of cold, wraps his arms around himself and chatters, “I h… ha… hate you ssssso m… much right now.”

Dean doesn’t bother to answer as they make their way through the snow.  The Dairy Queen is mostly empty, but there’s a family in the far corner having lunch and the look on the cashier’s face when he orders a large dip cone is totally worth the walk through the frozen tundra.  Sammy gets his hot chocolate and they sit by one of the windows, looking out at the lights lining the city’s center shops.  The Dairy Queen itself has one of those frosted murals of a snow man hugging Santa surrounded by poinsettias.

Neither of them say anything, but Dean can read that Sammy wants to in the way he looks at Dean every now and then, the way he looks back at the rest of the room and it’s occupants, reminding himself he can’t do it now, with them watching, the way he sighs and stares at his hot chocolate before looking out over the snow and then back at Dean to do the whole thing over again.  Dean just enjoys his dip cone.  Sammy will say whatever he wants to say when he’s ready to say it.

By the time they get back, they’re soaked through and freezing.  They change into dry clothes and Dean grabs all the blankets in the apartment, then huddles with Sammy on the couch, wrapped in four layers of not nearly warm enough quilts, shivering.

_Miracle on 34 th Street_ in almost over and the Christmas marathon is moving onto the early evening shows.  _Home Alone_ is next, then _Scrooged_ , then they’ll get into the adult hours and it’s _Die Hard_ followed by _Gremlins_.

“Hey, Dean?”  Dean nods into the mess of damp hair under his chin.  “Do you like it?  Killing I mean.”

Dean drops his head so he can smell the faint traces of Strawberry Kiwi shampoo and hums thoughtfully.  He’s not sure how to answer that, mostly because it’s a loaded question and ‘like’ is a very broad term.

Sammy sits up and looks at him.  The eye contact means this is serious.  “Not just enjoy it, because I get that.  There’s the adrenaline and the control and you feel like you have to do it anyway, but…  If he didn’t tell you to do it, would you?  Would you still want to?”

He shakes his head without even really thinking about it, but it’s true.  He doesn’t like it in that sense.  There’s immediately relief and Sammy seems to be nodding to himself more than anything before he snuggles back into Dean’s chest and it must mean something to Sammy, because he’s more relaxed then he has been in months.  Not that Dean’s fooled, he can practically hear the gears turning in Sammy’s head, but there’s no way to stop those, so he just wraps his arms a little tighter around his brother and enjoys the moment.


End file.
